epiphania

a linguistic break wall, round with stone syllables and vocables,
gives shape to articulation we call water – a narrative wash
to cleanse the palette, to rinse earthly vulgarities spoken in abjection,
while present in the wandering, and bed-down, with a forgiving cat
curled up just outside the mosquito netting. free of regrets, its curved
purr induces a narcotic sleep. sage, mistletoe, wild poppies, nettles,
jasmine, and that blossomed purple flag wagging its erotic death
spike at diaphanous linen robes – no human reigns forever, not even
over one’s own soul. tell me, what it is like, to stroll
without a destination as wind’s stray feather, a lost thought that flutters
amongst the ideation, that roman foot soldiers arrive as sound-color,
create a tremor in foot trails, too old to count the steps, each stone
pressed into their arches.
their descent – a pineal-well drunk dry.

 

Chamomile Agora

rest easy Parthenon warrior singers in your marble
presence along the walk to Odeon of Agrippa
the singing place with memories, odes, victories
and defeats bound by your slick innocence
stoic is your pragmatic death chiseled as fish scales
Poseidon’s crescent lappings
who were the sculptors here where Athena mourned
and Paul defended peace on the Rock of Ares?

the magpies land accordingly, set down lightly
bob from shoulder to trident to head
your muscular trunks petrified, your eternal gaze
scans steady the southwest fountain house
skims poppies that grow along the wall
between the judas trees
and sycamores

 

Hamon in the Sky

waggled from Philly to Phoenix slicing sundogs
into rainbow ring dings – carnival barker hoops
the jets pierce through
earth defying geyser-thrusts upward –
an Eval Knievel rocket blast through a brazen ring of fire
or maybe they are whales that blow unrest from crested clouds
we ride above violent storm’s deluge – this death up here
a disconnect from tarpits and fossil fuels
the puddles we crawled out of

we live between the striations of a freakin’ deep dish taco salad
set down on a sweltering August day – outdoor buffet family reunion style –
we can’t evade the Dantean enjambments and
human indigestion

this hamon in the sky slices apple pie too and rolled tatami
an arm or leg in some shit hole country rubbed raw
by ghost tooth failures
we never seem to rise above

 

Sundress Best of the Net Nominee, Suzanne S. Rancourt, is of Abenaki/Huron descent. Author of Billboard in the Clouds, Northwestern UP, received the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas First Book Award, and murmurs at the gate, Unsolicited Press, released in 2019. Old Stones, New Roads, Main Street Rag Publishing, is forthcoming Spring 2021. She is a USMC and Army Veteran who holds degrees in psychology, writing, and expressive arts therapy. Suzanne is widely published.  Please visit her website for a complete publication list.