Mocking Heart Review – Vol 8, Issue 2: https://mockingheartreview.com/archives/volume-8-issue-2/dianna-mackinnon-henning/ There’s only one stonethat matters. Cushioned in mudand clay and seaweed,it feeds on dreams. In the sludgeof spring’s first run-off,a hand might reach down,lift the nearby weight of one,skip it across water’sirrepressible bone. Whohas picked such a stonefrom amongst the many? And why that one? I…
1 This is my cutting board. These are my hands adept at cutting. This is my chicken whose neck I’ll sever. My cutting board floods with new geographies. I pluck my fingers of blood. Who knows a woman’s aim when she swings? The word-hands of the world lay wreaths at the serifs of despair. Who says …
I wish I could tell you more about the man
bent over the drawing of his daughters
Sofi and Sonia, how like Saint Bartholomew
in Rembrandt’s painting, the man becomes so intent
that his pencil is now another finger,
Years later, my grandfather
reached into his pocket for a handkerchief
and extracted my grandmother like a molar from the grave
There’s no exception to the strangeness
Who’s astonished by the way
stars smell like communion wafers?
Already the galaxy’s priests
have rounded up the runaways.
MacKinnon Henning, D. (2021). Clover. Psychological Perspectives, 64(2), 276. https://doi.org/10.1080/00332925.2021.1959801 In the foliage of my life, I was honey,something extracted, poured into another,so when you found me there was no resemblanceto my former self. Adept at transformation, I jotted notes on where to retrieve myself. Across fields of forever,someone like me spent days rifling through clover,especially for the…