d a w n    p e n d e r g a s t


from TWO


[—so you canter close]

[We wake in the middle]



—so you canter close
to the roadside, hay in your hair &
rotten crocuses. Even
in all this wind, horses crying

& chickens stuck to chicken
wire, you whisper. I don't know where
the whispering is—

The pale wheat moves like gazelles
on my legs & you break the wheat
something to say.

There is something to say.

Small dogs puddle under me & I try
not to hurt them.




We wake in the middle
of the night      legs askew
one orange wobbling on the floor.

I'm afraid & I say it
into your shoulders      started
like shadows of shoulders.

You say numbers of things
are true: the purpling face on the table,
your face like a fuse. You take my hands

into two kinds of darkness. Black streets,
the cities of things, flowers snapping
like glass in the garden.

I am here & we lie blinking
on the bed.
We look like moths.


DAWN PENDERGAST lives in Tucson AZ where she is a member of POG poetry collective. You can find more work at Dusie, Coconut and her website whatbirdsgiveup.com.