By: Catherine Arra

Adagio

Or an
unmoored 12-bar
blues, wounded sonata
a busted-up nursery rhyme
or the

lost verse
speechless stanza
mirrored in minor keys
for mourning, for melancholy,
maudlin

after
one too many
dirty martinis, no
olive, loving white sand deserts
wanting

beaches,
the notes of my
single solo played in
allegro. No time signatures.
That life.

Expired

I dreamed
I changed my name;
the other one ran out.
I don’t know my new name. I have
no face.

To Serve

Make night
a satin sheath
in star-studded cobalt
barrooms, where the cocktail priestess
is me.

To Pray

Kneel to
earth, trembling for
sleep in battle. We cling
in sleep, for unmapped peace in war.
For sleep.

Gusts & Gales

Water
rips westbound in
wind-whipped white-capped waves, slam-
dunking ducks, hula-hooping birds
in flight.

January

Wolf moon
rocket-rides dusk
wakes the lake in shimmer
sways palms, tickles frogs howling.
We swoon.

Sounds

Your name.
Ls and Ss
slinky down stairs, spiral
silver heads to tails. I’m [again]
a child.

I Can Deny You Nothing

My hands
brace your hips, hard.
Lips tease shoulders, map chest.
Breath on belly, fingers in silk.
Sated.

Your Turn

Smooth sex
my old skin to
glisten in a diamond-
littered little black dress, without
the dress.

###

Catherine Arra lives in the Hudson Valley of upstate New York, where she teaches part-time, and facilitates local writing groups. She is the author of eight poetry collections. Recent work appears in Anti-Heroin Chic, Unbroken, Impspired, Poetica Review, Piker Press, Rat’s Ass Review, and Unleashed Lit..