Linda Parsons: Two Poems

Black Widow


                  Glad as I was to see 
the wasp squirm in the web, shields aquiver, 
lance of its ass lowered, I was not prepared 
for her glittering approach. Fiddle of her body 
en pointe, unmistakable mark of Cain seared 
this ordinary noon beside the mailbox. Barearmed, 
in cutoffs, dividing coreopsis, aligning beanrows, 
I never imagined stealth strung like so much 
light catching fire.

                  Resume the clutched breath, 
thunderstruck. Hourglass spills blood’s sudden 
knowing. Time to overturn bucket and stacked 
stone, poke blankets, brittle papers in attic and shed, 
awaken the dust of my shoes, blithe procrastinations. 
Time to gather strands held in death’s white 
tooth dancing just out of view, to rattle 
the earth as I pass through. 

Once a Rose

         Furry from stem to bud, 
roselike shrub on the bank of the Garonne 
snags the airborne fluff I might name
milkweed at home, an ocean away—
furs of its own volition, both soft and prickly 
as the dance we do, stiffnecked, not bowing 
or scraping to the caller’s allemande, 
for we would rather be wallflowers 
than shed our thorns, rather be solitary 
wisps adrift on river wind than the crimson 
profusion we once were, this haloed 
floribunda, an aching invitation. 

Copyright 2021 Linda Parsons

Linda Parsons is the poetry editor for Madville Publishing. Her many

collections of poetry include Candescent (Iris Press, 2019).