Sasha Steensen
Nursery Rhyme
The thorntree snags its bird
by berries
like the word its thought
a little blood down the walk
until from the sky falls
a dictionary
on the little bird
and the berry
leaving
a lot of blood on the walk
and our memories
a mass of moss
growing in the crevices
of knees, elbows
& livers
until a swarm of bees
breaches the family
and warms us in winter
with its stings
until a word intercedes
to ask what word casts
what other word out
until the weathercock bade
us this way
west
with the recollection
of collective memory
following the collection
of members
of the family
Fragments i
after Hopkins
The sun just risen
flares his wet brilliance in the dintless heaven
Did I finish this morning’s morning given
before mid-noon
its sickle-stink
brooding about until a fire flames forth
from the cross-tree I spot a darkling willow
the sun deadened
evening’s evening
a dent in timber, then smoldering embers
I caught this night
Night’s water, now pay fast attention, heaven
what happened happened, I speared a fish straight thru
its gilly heart
I’m not sorry
narrowness surrounds me vast, moving faster
O afternoon begging me to be quiet
with my bucket
tied to my side
fishingpole whacking at flies and besides the fish
is multiple and warring with each other
as a fire
in the canoe
good for roasting dwindles with the day, hurray!
Bring in the fog, then, and mope around the house
Blame God then and
mope around the yard
But watch out, the world is charged with the grandeur
of God, Oh I
know Ohio
how squirrels on my roof sound like a stampede
and feed grows scarce with each passing hour our
gilly heart spared,
tackled, laid out
to dry in the sun, as on a hammock, but less fun
oh waterspout of wildfire turned off
leafmold growing
spawns small nesters
with all sorts of sicknesses chased away pale
or dimly ticks
call neighbors over to peer upon our pocks
how stuttery your sprung is as if you can
not speak to God
sores in the mouth
sprung hotly so that chicken tastes like pigeon
who has my hat
but the little life giggling in the corner
she’s so dear to me my daughter tho she fits
barely in the poem
but I force it
so that she might have a small place among you
damn sentimental
to hell or wanwood forest, whatever’s quicker
as it may be
I ate, slept, and spit on Hopkins his silence
lights a mile of green grass ahead and all the darkness stays dark
as it should be
Sasha Steensen is the author of A Magic Book (Fence Books) and correspondence (with Gordon Hadfield, Handwritten Press). Her new manuscript, The Method, is forthcoming from Fence Books in late 2008. A chapbook entitled The Future of an Illusion will be out with Dos Press in May 2008. Recent work has appeared in Aufgabe, Denver Quarterly, Shiny, Goodfoot, and Shearsman. She is one of the poetry editors of Colorado Review and sheco-edits of Bonfire Press. She teaches Creative Writing at Colorado State University.