National Poetry Month : Kristina Drake,

Frameways

I am your doorways,

those frameworks where you stand,

poised on the threshold

of fresh air and uneven pavement

Your right foot has not yet landed,

your upper body leans

forward, transferring weight

The brown shoebox on the shelf collects dust,

holding red tango shoes

worn last at a wedding, now waiting

for another

Afternoon sunlight enters

the room, dust dances in its beam

We could be anywhere

To dance, one must first learn

to walk, to embody direction, stability

the dancing frame

holds us both strong

Your deltoid, a firm naval orange

under your shirt,

shouldering the steps

We make a box of gyprock walls, choose paint colors,

nail, stain and varnish floors, adorn the ceiling

with lighting and persistent cracks

We argue over keeping the door open or closed

We open windows and draw blinds;

your eyelids flicker in the early morning light

Whatever you’re dreaming causes goosebumps to scurry

across your bare shoulder, rippling,

I place my warm hand there,

still you, feel you

relax

A perfect chair waits in the corner

with filigree wood, a cushion of tapestry.

It belongs in the dusty rose of photos from years gone by.

We do not sit there, only look at it. Sometimes,

I perch on the edge to do up the strap of my shoe,

bending over in a deep, amateur cambré

, I am off center

 

Kristina Drake writes and edits in the wilderness of East Hawkesbury, Ontario. Her poems have previously appeared in Carte Blanche, Soliloquies and Yalla!, as an above/ground press broadside, and as a Tuesday poem on Dusie. Her chapbook Ornithology appeared with above/ground press in 2017.

National Poetry Month 2017 : Kristina Drake,

Indulgence

The dough must be punched down

to rise. Conveniently,

this suits your mood, satisfies.

To be strong, forceful –
if only against single-celled organisms –
feels good.

Eventually, your knuckles hurt.
This, too, satisfies.

Later, when the dough has risen again
and been baked to fragrant bread,

you will devour your anger, swallow

the crusty, delicious warmth,

gobs of butter melting golden into its holes

the way rage seeps from your spaces,

until you are filled, pillow-soft, with release.

Crumbs catch on the breast of your sweater,

a light dusting of flour contours your mouth,

guilt-edged.

Sink back into the couch;

Don’t bother brushing it off.

Kristina Drake writes and edits in the wilderness near Hawkesbury, Ontario. Her poems have previously appeared as a Tuesday poem on Dusie; in Carte Blanche, Soliloquies and Yalla!; and as an above/ground press broadside.