Household Fires

I am not what you need.

First we burn the formal dresses, then a
boa of pale white feathers.

Sulfur, somewhere.

Canute, the Viking king of England
rises out of the carpet—

he places his throne in the sea
but cannot stop the tide.

Five texts
exhumed by
human
breath.

Platters of hard and nutty cheese.

(Insisting, at parties, that all
children fly in dreams.)

Someone is coming,
possibly
in a chariot.

Also,
the wolves
that raised us
whelp another
litter.

I am divested, the first
sign of smoke.
Refreshed by cookery.
The blue list is short.

Jenny Drai lives in Vancouver, Washington, where she is working on a
novel. Her poetry has appeared in
Court Green, 580 Split, RealPoetik,
H_ngm_n, Parthenon West Review, and Spinning Jenny, among other
journals, as well as in the
Calaveras chapbook series and in
Phrases/Fragments: an anthology (Sustenance Press).