Monday, 28 January 2019


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
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;

slink past sunlight
behind curtains

at dusk, slicing
through memories

no one cares enough
to carry.

Sunday, 27 January 2019

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


Thursday, 24 January 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.)

Wednesday, 23 January 2019

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

Wednesday, 16 January 2019

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.

Tuesday, 15 January 2019

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 

Saturday, 12 January 2019

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!


Jenny & Ande
(Uppsala, Sweden)