By Jane Craven
May storms
a volley
of hovering Catherines
at my window
not ghosts but plants
a line of fiery palms
the war
rolled in on a mist
while I was on my back
in a silk dress
vintage
weft-webbed
giving way
beneath you
in my notebook
an alarm of harebells
stars
arranging themselves
as tiny flowers on a
galloping heath
today
I read the word greet
as regret
and remembered
us
in the quiet of a garden
two figures the color of ash
vitreous
dripping
like saints in the rain.
***
JANE CRAVEN lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill and has worked in systems development and as the director of a contemporary art museum. She is a student in the North Carolina State University MFA-Poetry program and her work has appeared in The Texas Review, The Columbia Review, Tar River Poetry, and Atlanta Review.