Two poems – Sue Chenette


A wisp of quince in the hollyhock soup
a whisk, a ladle, a taste.
A hedgehog of a different stripe
aloof and cantering past.

No, no, that won’t do, use onions and lentils
a pottery dish, all crazed
The beast is a cat patrolling the floor
in search of a mousey prize

She must varnish the woodwork, banish the stains.
She’s tired of this – a loop.
She longs for a room with a pouffe and a sconce
a book full of rhymes
a clock’s muted chime
a day full of time
the pleasure, sublime
of quince in a hollyhock soup.

Eleanor’s Song

If you pulled a pokeweed
could you paint a pony

If you penned a pony
could you pose a theory

If you parsed a theory
you could spy a berry

If you picked a berry
you could hear Betty

playing songs on her flute
Is there a great song-flute

that sings us gathered in?

You know

we didn’t think radio
would last when it first came in

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