ekleksographia wave two

Roost

Words tonight fly out as black as crows,
oily and stubborn, ruffled and sharp.
Feathers may litter the floor.

The air holds a fever, a taut pitch,
a howl we hitch to, each unsure
of our turf. Bristling, a hiss—

and it isn't the kettle or the cat.
But we swallow the rest, stinging
until the barbs wing into the night.

We settle our worries like eggs.
Tomorrow, we draw the same breath
when we see the mountains rising

into morning, as white as clouds.
A crow's nest is a sloppy mess,
a loose muddle of twigs in a tree.

Love is like that—on a hard day, held
with spit and bits of string—
on a good day, home.

---

And Then Spring Passes Like a Stranger

This gray deluge streaks
the window, blurs

the yard's long grass,
brings the lilac boughs down,

each flower a fragile chalice,
but if she could bury

her face in those purple clusters—
that perfume. Rain washes

the scent off the blooming,
soaks her to the roots and leaves

her a little too clean,
a little too cold.

Ekleksographia:
Wave Two

November, 2009

Poems

• Roost
• And Then Spring Passes Like a Stranger

Joannie Kervran Stangeland

Joannie Kervran Stangeland is the author of two chapbooks, and her work has most recently appeared in Raven Chronicles, Iota Magazine, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. Joannie is also working on the video series A Writer's Guide to Microsoft Office.