Wanted: A New Name for Night Dread
by Dorine Jennette
Black dog of 3 a.m., nobody wants you.
Weight on the chest, pad-footed rot.
Jaguars, return to your rubber trees;
tigers, go hunker your grass. Alarm,
skinny arms, no one here is surprised
by your wasting, your warping toward zero.
A bedful of chinquapin spines could be fresh,
but no demon clowns. No calliope wheeze.
If a ten-year-old flogs an accordion?
You’d kick her teeth in, but she’s you—
you made these small friends
somewhere, and that somewhere’s close to bone.
Your rooted dreads, nasturtium-like, are edible,
and proliferate, and grow best in a fog-bound home.
Be sure to check out Dorine Jennette's new poetry collection, Urchin to Follow, now available from The National Poetry Review Press.
Under Cover of Night
From the Memoir:
My Father’s Gardens
by K. Levy