Ether

The air is thick  

as we sink in

first bites of untruth

through its smooth,

almost ripe

stubborn skin, to meet

layers of sweet, but

it refuses our teeth

and tongues laced with

chatter, wrapping its

darkness around

our secrets

to keep us quiet,

to save us

somehow
from ourselves.

Moving Out

A house never forgets
how to hold its own

but it’s hard

to stay whole

when hallways

fill spaces

with hauntings;
shadows

slink past sunlight

behind curtains

at dusk, slicing

through memories

no one cares enough
to carry.

but not for

is there a minimum resolution?
no, the dead plant i am looking at
seems like it is near the bottom of the tapestry but it goes down and down
in a long dive of detail from there;
i can see it now, in red and black thread, the bacteria
and the little lights and darknesses
beneath and inside them

it goes up in a long shout,
this dead stick shouts
it makes me weep but not for death


2019

The Shadow Play Master

the shadow play master’s
slender but crooked fingers
and neat paper silhouettes
grow and shrink for the last time
on the wall inside the brick building

oak brass tea steam
phlegmatic applause
the master makes his exit
while charming charlatan
with wild duck in basket
makes his appearance

door creaks fox flees into bush
coach passes by copper lamppost
three afghan hounds run after the coach
their paws hardly touch the ground

the frost fog in the grove
icy through respiratory tract
the shadow play master’s green coat
with black pompoms
becomes visible through the fog
but not his flour white complexion

hoarfrost on nostril hair
pine needles become blue
only frost no snow yet.


© Jenny Enochsson 2019


(This is a revised version of a poem I wrote in 2010.)

Dan Keller’s Onions  

              

                                                     -For Dan, who shared his onion starts with all of us

They planted one field of onions the first spring.

The next year they planted  more.

Earthy and fragrant, tender green swords broke earth.

Neighbors said we want to plant onions too.

The next year they planted more,

fields neatly tucked around the homes.

Neighbors said we want to plant onions too.

Onion fields grew, large and small, like a new kind of music on the radio.

Fields neatly tucked around the homes slipped

violets and cinquefoil around front yards.

Onion fields grew, large and small, like a new kind of music on the radio.

Sun warmed the damp earth, and stalks grew tall

Violets and cinquefoil around front yards,

color and courage, a bit of surprise.

Sun warmed earth and stalks grew tall

with phlox and daisies slipped in.

Color and courage, a bit of surprise,

earthy and fragrant, tender green swords broke through the earth.

Phlox and daisies slipped in.

They planted one field of onions the first spring.

Elalne Reardon

Nightswimmer Junior, Poised for the Grand Crossing

N.J. tells Nightswimmer she wants the supreme challenge—

to cross Lake Michigan. This is fifty-something miles.

He nearly advises she not try it, remembers in the nick

how reverse psychology functions. Nothing guarantees

a decision like dissuasion. He neither supports

the idea aloud nor discourages it. N.J.’s objective

remains set. Then it’s late August. Her training routes:

Charlevoix to Beaver Island, circles around both Manitous.

Further than civilians swim, but short of fifty miles.

Summer’s slipping off. There’s far, then there’s too far,

a limit. He keeps this concern contained,

packs it as a flotation device. “We go,” she declares,

as he caulks the follow boat, loads back-up fuel.

He blunts unexpected jealousy— it’s her not him

attempting to cheat death, to master Michigan.

Since the swim is on though, he’s all in. She needs a witness

to this otherwise completely private enterprise,

should she land in Door County, Wisconsin. A win.

He’ll be present should she tire and need assistance.

N.J. says “Tonight.” That’s it. Competent adults

do what they wish. Few are swayed by outside input.

Friends can watch or look away. This friend

pilots a lifeboat, harbors doubts but refuses to flake.

Todd Mercer (b. 1969) was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. Mercer won 1st, 2nd & 3rd place of the Kent County Dyer-Ives Poetry Prizes and the won Grand Rapids Festival Flash Fiction Prize. His chapbook Life-wish Maintenance is posted at Right Hand Pointing. Recent work appears in: The Lake, The Magnolia Review, Praxis and Softblow. Mercer and his wife Michaeleen Kelly adopted an awesome rescue dog (Garpur-Bradley) who only talks when it is important.

The last poem I wrote

March 2018

Vitreous Body

If I had an autopsy

done this morning

The doctor would

see bites on my ass

And hand prints

and the long,

Grooved hollow

of a cane mark

Last night I dreamt

I woke

With tattoos all

down my legs

a line of sun-bruised flowers

peonies and birds

and I dreamt

that you came

into the room—

my ex-husband

who knew me,

and knew me,

and turned away

from me

and I said,

I don’t know how I got these tattoos. I woke with them.

And he said,

You wear them well,

You’ve always worn them

Your muscles have worn them,

Your tissue, your capillaries

They were there from the moment

You were named.

You didn’t know.

And then you vaguely knew.

And then you

didn’t want to know.

And then knowing

Became living.

We were married

for eighteen years

I didn’t know what

I felt when I was

23 and I walked down

the aisle toward the

the man who would become

My partner, my co-parent,

My parent.

All I knew

was that I had to keep

Walking and where I stopped,

There he was.

His hammock made for me.

Years swaying on it

Through graduate school,

Through babies,

Through silence

Through knowing,

Trying desperately to unknow.

He knew.

You knew.

He saw.

You knew.

I wanted a hand to

Slap me.

I wanted

to be whipped

I wanted

to feel the broken

vessels the next morning

like aching

aching rivers

wanting to run but

Hitting a snag,

Eddying, oxbowing

There are flowers in my body

They bloom when

I remember to forget my name.

Mysterious Pines

© Jenny Enochsson 2017

I will hopefully post a poem next time. The last seven years I have written fiction in Swedish and no poetry. At the moment, I am writing a novel. I am a bit uptight about creating poems again, but I also enjoy the freedom of free verse a lot. In a way, my poems are mini stories.

Jenny Enochsson 

The New Rufous Salon

Hi there,

Long time no see! We have decided to open Rufous Salon again. The blog is now a poetry community instead of an online magazine. We will send author invitations to some of our favourite poets soon.

If you have not received an invitation and would like to post poems, you may contact us.

L'art pour l'art!


Cheers

Jenny & Ande
(Uppsala, Sweden)