Dayna Patterson
Sharing the Shower with 2 Kids
is a 6-legged beige monster
a game of Twister in the nude
suddenly a shark tank
or a mermaid lagoon
it's a foamy Cirque de Soleil
part Tai Chi, part Taekwondo
2/3 minstrelsy,
1/3 waterfall
it's the squeeze of a gumball machine
Shiva in the rain
the shady laundromat
where the wash might come out clean.
Migraine
I love waking up in the morning
and finding it gone, its heavy bags packed,
the guestroom empty, the bed slightly rumpled,
but made. The lovely grey light filters in
through the blinds, the kettle is on and will soon
yield hot water in which to steep a sachet
of peppermint tea. There will be oatmeal
with whole milk, cinnamon, raisins, pecans,
and all the goodness a fresh start gives.
Maybe there is some spilled juice,
sticky and purple on the breakfast table,
nothing that can’t be wiped away.
The intrusive guest is gone—for today.
Migration
It’s in their genes, as a need for God
is in ours. Birds spill across the white sky,
moving with urgency, sewn with invisible stitches,
thousands of years of instinct
tugging. A sash of wings whip
across cloud. Their brains
house compasses, all calibrated.
They link to form a pattern
of black tildes on cotton. The runnel of ink
channels our eyes. Minutes pass. We look
until the last fleck is gone.
Without them, above is a paint-poor canvas.
Dayna Patterson's chapbooks, Loose Threads and Mothering, are available from Flutter Press. Her poetry has appeared in North American Review, Weave, Clover, and REAL, among others. She is the Poetry Editor for Psaltery & Lyre.
Sharing the Shower with 2 Kids
is a 6-legged beige monster
a game of Twister in the nude
suddenly a shark tank
or a mermaid lagoon
it's a foamy Cirque de Soleil
part Tai Chi, part Taekwondo
2/3 minstrelsy,
1/3 waterfall
it's the squeeze of a gumball machine
Shiva in the rain
the shady laundromat
where the wash might come out clean.
Migraine
I love waking up in the morning
and finding it gone, its heavy bags packed,
the guestroom empty, the bed slightly rumpled,
but made. The lovely grey light filters in
through the blinds, the kettle is on and will soon
yield hot water in which to steep a sachet
of peppermint tea. There will be oatmeal
with whole milk, cinnamon, raisins, pecans,
and all the goodness a fresh start gives.
Maybe there is some spilled juice,
sticky and purple on the breakfast table,
nothing that can’t be wiped away.
The intrusive guest is gone—for today.
Migration
It’s in their genes, as a need for God
is in ours. Birds spill across the white sky,
moving with urgency, sewn with invisible stitches,
thousands of years of instinct
tugging. A sash of wings whip
across cloud. Their brains
house compasses, all calibrated.
They link to form a pattern
of black tildes on cotton. The runnel of ink
channels our eyes. Minutes pass. We look
until the last fleck is gone.
Without them, above is a paint-poor canvas.
Dayna Patterson's chapbooks, Loose Threads and Mothering, are available from Flutter Press. Her poetry has appeared in North American Review, Weave, Clover, and REAL, among others. She is the Poetry Editor for Psaltery & Lyre.