Poetry
Myers, Joan Rohr & Partridge, Dixie
Joan Rohr Myers Offertory Denied ordination by virtue of sex, I find it ironic that God sends me a consistory of cardinals red-robed and chattering. Within yards of my touch they rest on the...
...we have watched the narrow road below lapped up by the lake, water rising all the way to Hyde's place: now the lips of Lombardys point above water like sable brushes...
...Aspens quake for a season under the- ripples Persistent birds bubble songs to the surface...
...They see only themselves safe on bare wood and I watch as they take what they need: the oil I leave in sunflower seeds the color of ashes...
...As you turn up your collar, the full bowl of moon splashes a monk's shadow beside you...
...holding to branches washed of leaves...
...After so long an absence we need something bright to pull us together...
...History wears the same face after dark...
...I am ten...
...118: Commonweal...
...and wood slabs float into haphazard rafts at Crcsent Cove...
...Within yards of my touch they rest on the hedge near the window and must understand the wall they can't see would break their bones if they flew full-force against it...
...I have always loved the light in this room...
...You mirror the moon and I study the ranges and crevices, your life and your death, all within reach...
...Trout from streams of Wind River Range find the limits of the lake exotic- ground nests of larks hatch spectacular birds to climb the liquid sky...
...Joan Rohr Myers What We Wear I put down the medieval mystery I'm reading and we go for a walk...
...One move from me and they'd disappear unless glass this thin works like a mirror in the day's early light...
...The cowl grazes your neck and sou hang strangely at case in whatever wool you are given...
...Dixie Partridge Watermark: The Reservoir From the new mountain highway...
...It is cold for October and we follow the clouds of our breath...
...Joan Rohr Myers Interiors Two dozen daffodils held in clear glass or white linen are drawing the sun and your eyes...
...and with skin so close to the bone, you take on an aura of granite...
...In the basement below cider bottled last autumn discovers its sparkle...
...strange, stringy plants waving upward in the current where wild roses pale toward green light...
...We move along: you cracking the leaves like dry parchment, I, on the rag-wrapped feet of a twelfth-century spy...
...I am certain they rise from barn roofs collapsing upward: Surely the road beneath Mill winds...
Vol. 116 • February 1989 • No. 4
