Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry Special Feature

Two Word Poems

by Barbara De Franceschi

Photography by Kawika Chetron


left over thoughts of repression
follow me into a recurrent dream

I drink from the setting sun
fingers tingle/ hands become enormous spades
shoveling ether in a cyberspace squall

there is a feeling of presage infused with smell
sweet/ exotic/ sour-sharp

physical restraints hiss like helium from a balloon
body expands into a gigantic soufflé
buoyant fractures levitate weightless above rooftops

in a skull session behind closed lids
steller blizzards batter meaning
scorching flashes shoot colour into gloom

fearless yet afraid I explode into atoms
sliding screens pass between reality and unwritten flows

there is confusion mixed with panic
hands clamp under armpits/ toes scrunch
the moon trundles too swiftly

then it is gone

breath passing through maidenhair
a geranium kiss against my cheek

fingers flutter in semi-sleep—
        clipped wings
                trying to fly



the coarse ground smell of nutmeg
white bowls filled with junket
left on a window sill to set
in slow movement around my kitchen
things I have inherited

a dab of geranium oil carries her with me
she taps against my skull
with the insistence of a woodpecker
pecks my mind with things I acquaint to her

sponge cakes that never levitate
flatness camouflaged with cream in Kosciusko piles
I imitate my mother’s skill
add strawberries to the height

I collect chunks of her migraines
rampage the bathroom in a talcum powder squall
sprinkle rosewater over bed linen
smear prayers with glycerine

but it’s the smell of geraniums
that shape her
along with nutmeg
and junkets on a window sill


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