Dianna’s work has appeared in: The Spoon River Quarterly, Crazy horse, The Lullwater Review, Poetry International, Fugue, Swink, the Asheville Poetry Review, Red Rock Review, South Dakota Review, Hawai’I Pacific Review and the Seattle Review. Her recent work can be seen in FutureCycle, on-line and in print form. She holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her book THE BROKEN BONE TONGUE was published by Black Buzzard Press 2009. She has written a young adult novel that takes place in Nova Scotia and is currently shopping it around.
Over the Weather Lurks Nothing But Calm
Arriving sopped, we found Bristol’s Bed & Breakfast
deluged with leaks. Sorry for the inconvenience, said the hostess.
Sometimes, it’s best not to know a thing in advance,
like the cancer that later wrings you obsolete.
Thanks to the rain, we canceled the bed & breakfast,
headed for another place, and discovered a cabin
by the falls to which we returned year after year.
Decades later, visiting Vermont’s Lincoln’s Gap,
the torrent pouring down became water over the dam;
happiness, a stone we once skipped.
No one says he’s beside the weather, but I was
close to you while the damp air wrapped us in its oil-
skin slicker. The weather slept with us that first night
and although you are gone, I feel your return in the rain.
Taking Out the Trash
Should I place a menu, post it for the bear’s
next visit, put out napkins and paper plates,
and what about a table cloth so the bear
is then accommodated by the niceties of polite
dining? I imagine him telling his friends that our
house is the best hit, always plenty to maul over,
and he invites them to dine after his nightly rounds;
plastic bags torn open, strewn across the yard,
looking like gutted ravens, orange peels,
tea bags and coffee grounds ignored.
I’ve tried to catch him in his act of busting open
the trash’s lid and have waited late into the dark
hoping to see this king of thrifty enterprise,
yet I’ve not caught a single sight of him.
There’s something thick about the boundless
night that makes me hesitate. It’s as though
the pliable world is less so in darkness—so I
fidget, horrified to break a path through air,
place one foot upon the porch—the burning eyes
of bear turning me coward at my front door.