lullaby, hush


sun on wheat, lark in spring, sky-lake


we’ll amble on by, dutiful in our bones, shake out old

precipices from older troubles


your nibbled fingertips, bitten nail. thee. correct. informal

you. well, we’re in this muck together


so long as we both shall live, meaning, one of us, but

we’re not like that, not a married couple


gold in the wheat, light, not a song


just a pair of tap dancing skeletons. that’s us for sure


come now. come for your warm bath


stop. let me wipe dust from the purity of your skin






Jenny Drai is the author of several collections of poetry, most recently Wine Dark (Black Lawrence Press) and [the door] (Trembling Pillow Press). Her novella, Letters to Quince, was awarded the Deerbird Novella Prize from Artistically Declined Press and her nonfiction has been published in Spittoon, Banango Street, and forthcoming in NAILED Magazine. She was recently awarded the 2017 Gail B. Crump Prize in Experimental Fiction from Pleiades Magazine. She lives in Bonn, Germany.


jenny drai