Wednesday, July 27, 2011


You Can Kneel Down in Front of Me
(I Won't Tell Your Angel)

Just a touch upon your sleepy head.
A drop of rain tapping the green doors.

Just a red flower         float
passing in the hurt parade.

A small death-bed scene.
Learning to say 'I do'
with just your body.

His fashionable, revealing
big and little hands
have yet to pull a white rabbit
from your black hat.

Still, your beauty table is spread eagle.
Having nothing to do with birds.
Having everything to do with flying.

You jack-knife into the water
shimmering like something silver
in the fathoms.

You promise him a summer dress
that leaves nothing to the imagination
if he will stop following you.

You promise to be that woman
standing in the middle
of a very important light

if he would finger death's parrot
in gentle circular motions
before every white sheet.

He promises the undertaker will arrive
and remove the broken ladder
so finally
you'll be given a purpose.

You intend to crowd the pitchforks
and torches of his mob
with a guillotine smile.
Having nothing to do with death.
Having everything to go with guilt.

You intend to deserve it.


During the unmentioned hours of sleep
colors above two streets
that momentarily meet
close and open.

A forgotten plane

carries the lost and found
shut tight in its book
signaling with little red ellipses –
their stories will be finished in cities
of uninhabited histories.

There are always two worlds
we try and survive.

The unforeseen sunlight.
The anticipated photograph
faded with graves.

The weather of love
from countries never seen.
The hoops of wedding rings
were only dust and snow pass clean.

While the days are a dog
searching for a bone
between the breasts,

the nights have broken
apart a rosary
into a flock of birds
that cannot thread together.

The only creation bearable
is a death outside
our own death,
the intermittent silence
when one thought doesn’t speak
to another,

when a black hand
ends a conversation.

About Donavon Davidson:
Donavon Davidson's poems have appeared, or are soon to appear, in: Pirene’s Fountain, Spork, 3:AM, Anti-, Arch, Pedestal, WordRiot, MiPOesias, Stirring, Evergreen Review, Barnwood International Poetry Magazine, and many others.  He received his MFA from Goddard.  He currently lives in Vermont where he teaches writing at the Community College of Vermont.

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