KATHY DAVIS

Three A.M.

only imagine the seven sisters
descending. The moon’s lost

behind somebody’s roof.
Marking time:

the ice maker, a car
on the street, the whoosh of furnace

on then off. A monk bending over a flower,
sees crucifixion, sacrifice,

names it passion, passiflora.
Christ. A woman should have the right

to choose her own fetters,
black nylons and a whip. Wet them,

she says on late-night TV, the ropes.
They’ll shrink as they dry, bind even

tighter. And here, a gag—
but he’s gone, her young lover,

disappeared off screen,
her door left standing ajar. Monster,

his parting shot.  It’s a sign
of winter, the setting of the Pleiades, passion

flower extract in a glass.
A gentle remedy, the bottle says, to help

with sleep. I swallow drop after bitter drop.
Not a hair stirs,

the beast already nodding off.  

   Contributor’s notes
   Holding For the Farrier
   Mrs. Cannon Passes the Parthenon on Her Way Home from Work
   Introductions Reading Loop
   Tracking the Muse: Guns, Tea, and Eating Chicken

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