Donelle Dreese


Here is a forest in my eye
a gnarled history not seeking
ashes or gardens or sex.

Here is a river in my mouth
with a tree branch for a tonsil
drinking from a fluid pink body.

Here is a thesaurus in my ear
translating words into orchids
germinating, opening, closing.

Here is a moment's fragment
a slice of cloud brought low.
I tap it for rain and turtles fall out.

I live in a house of grass
and this outstretched hair
is all I will give a hard wind. 

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