Drawing by Judith Wolfe

Jordanne Holyoak /

Two Poems


The moon
is a bright circle tonight.
It tugs at me
with a pull
oceans cannot resist.
In each of its circles
some wave changes direction
among a green wash of sea.

Sometimes I feel the ocean
pull my blood
in that ever-
circling ebb and flow
a woman has.

And there were times
as you watched the bright side
swell each night
to a final fullness of pearl,
you did not hear your name
surge in the dark waves
of my voice.

Out on the breast of the ocean
a boat, adrift for days,
floats back on the crest
of the moon's return.
My blood, spilled over and over,
renews to spill again.
And you,
lost so long to the dark region
between moon and tide,
have circled back soon enough
to find in my eyes the night,
and in it
the warm moon,
still holding you.


I walk out into a morning
dew falling from my hair.
An apple cools in my hand,
its fragrance riding
above the waxy whisper of carnations.

Afraid to taste,
I anticipate its flesh,
the same flesh others
beyond my borders
of roses and raspberries.
turn from tasting. Crimson.

You, no stranger
to the truths of pain, blood
or the backward-turning hands
on Love's clock,
step out each morning,
ready to taste.

She, in her time,
smiles in crimson,
points at you one hand,
and with the other
holds out the fleshy globe
of an apple.