The Ones Who Got Away
There are men you can't catch. There are men
who sidle down a winding sidewalk
when you try to run your fingers through them.
Ghosts race their shadows. They dart
in and out of alleyways, their faces
faintly captured in a bistro's picture window
as your eyes chase after.
A Prayer for Winter
I have learned to breathe like fabric,
to twirl in weak December sunshine.
As age comes, I am agnostic.
I fantasize about domesticity, lust,
hands on skin, aprons, pets.
I have learned that no matter what we believe
our breath will continue.
In December, my breath is crystalline;
my hands are gloved. I think of serving
Christmas dinners with these hands,
carving turkey, scooping corn,
petting my future daughter on the head
while laughing. My breath would be warm,
hers, young. I do not see a husband.
I am in flux now, only yet feeling the tock
of my biology, just wanting to feel the skin
of infants, not needing.
I do not ask God for a man.
Janann Dawkins lives in Ann Arbor. Her writing has appeared in decomP, Existere, Mezzo Cammin, Phoebe, Two Review and other fine places. Leadfoot Press published her chapbook, Micropleasure, in 2008. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.