Author: Jennifer Burnau

Apollo’s shadow
eclipses the map;
blankets the moon,
swallows her mouth.

Night’s indigo repair
cannot cease
to trap and freeze
his streaming dying image.

The starry blueprint
disintegrates his fingers,
falls on the sky,
resurfaces the moon.
 

Contributor’s Notes: Jennifer Burnau’s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Voices from the Attic, Vols. XIII and XVIII, and Pittsburgh City Paper.

I was born in a forest.

Crows cut me from the mother tree.
Nightingales cleared the dirt from my ears,
opened them to sound.
When the owls spoke
they always made me answer
in my own language.
It is still so difficult to translate
the vines growing out of my head.
Words frail as glass bubbles
Slice my lips.
Stir, you stranded stutter sound.

 

Contributor’s Notes: Jennifer Burnau’s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Voices from the Attic, Vols. XIII and XVIII, and Pittsburgh City Paper.

She pulls her smoke-thread snake

relentless through cracked rock.

Rise, inhale and sway;

rhythmic unspoken words.

Apollo’s fumes translate

her tragic cackle:

the gasping croak that catches

jeweled-head tools

like fast

accidents.

 

Contributor’s Notes: Jennifer Burnau’s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Voices from the Attic, Vols. XIII and XVIII, and Pittsburgh City Paper.