poem

by Barbara Daniels

Drinking Gin by the Back Bay

Lift your cold glass. Look through the gin

at my unsmiling face. If everything is forgiven,

what’s this coal in my throat, this taste

I can’t swallow down? Look at the swans,

those narcissists, curving their necks,

fluffing their feathers. Me, me, me

their loud wings repeat. You touch

my shoulder. Why does your hand

smell like burning? A voice seems to say 

Slip through the reeds that crowd

the shore. Blackbirds screech.

It’s time to watch the sun slide

to the glowing horizon—lavender,

violet, then badly bruised plum.

Let’s watch the black water get salted

with stars. It’s what I think death is—

implacable pines, darkness, severity,

and then in the darkness the light.

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Barbara Daniels’ most recent book, Talk to the Lioness, was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Free State Review, Philadelphia Stories, and many other journals. She received four fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.