two poems

by Terry Ann Wright

Somnambulist

You, somnambulist. What is real: white dog,

endless horizon of midnight sun. An omen

of everything removed, followed by stasis,

roots shooting down like anchors. A handbook

opened to faithlessness: you follow me, wooden

spoon in hand, a query practiced in a mirror

while wearing my clothes. It only unraveled

because no one remembered to tie the knot—

a missing citation, empty parentheses. You

misapprehend the calla lily: such a strange

flower, placed here in memory of something

that has died. A dress tried on in a Cambridge

shop, a dinner in a Chinese restaurant, a delay:

all collusion between others, you & I the symbols.

“women can be ravenous”

After Amy Schrader’s “Cat’s Eye (I)”

a raven warns:  never,   ever

(our men:  woe, womb)

we were never mavens,

we never saw warn or beware.

we wove a snare. we became

our own noose. o we aver

sour & we savor mourn. we

see moon & we become omen.

we cannot see our own waves;

only scars, seams. no nurse

can sever us; our venus moon:

venomous. we are crave:

we can never be new

because we were never brave.

Photo of Terry Ann Wright

BIO: Terry Ann Wright’s poem “Juniper Tree” was longlisted for the 2022 Sappho Prize and appears in her 2023 chapbook Mädchen, from dancing girl press. Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in SHINE Poetry Series, Suburban Witchcraft, Belletrist as well as Where Meadows, Red Ogre Review, and Stanza Cannon; previously in anthologies by Red Ogre, Cadence Collective, Sadie Girl Press, and Picture Show Press; and chapbooks mad honey (2018) by dancing girl press and Nature Studies (2015) by Sadie Girl Press, whose title poem was her third Pushcart Prize nomination.