dissed at the dance: a backyard fairy tale

Cordelia Hanemann


this morning, the feeder moves
in my back yard spilling
seed onto the hard ground
that grows mostly rocks
and the rare weed

long-beaked crow, black
sentinel with one white eye,
lords over the feeder
—my small bridge
to the garden

he and i had always done
the first and last dance together
but not last night

white butterflies flutter
about the cat mint
black crow caws
its white-rimmed eye
frightens the sparrows
making a new kind of silence

he tendered his apology [<Gk apologia]
logos: word/ what's in a word?
1. A statement expressing regret
    Or asking pardon for a fault
    or offense
2. A formal justification
    Or defense
3. An inferior substitute

white cat—troll-keeper
of the bridge—crouches
in red blossom residue
under the defunct hibiscus
green eyes watching
“dissed at the dance” Cordelia Hanemann/ no stanza break

sparrows crow
the unfledged fledgling

should i write poems for him,
letters        letters of connection
dis con neck shun
what’s in a dance?
how do i recover?
re-cover w[re]ck over
o ver: to turn
versatile aversion turn away
verse poem him word that i love
can he save me LLL (over)

black crow splaying birds
playing under the sprinkler
spray on the lawn,
spay the white cat
cut her o pen:
1. prison
2. writing implement
tool what tools belong
in the kitchen nursery
in the black house
that once belonged to my
mmmmm (other)

black crow with the big beak
dispersing birds of another feather
altogether piles of feathers
on the hard ground that grows
rocks the rare weed
wisteria vine racing to the finish
line climbing the tall
pine beat out the spade

king of spades eats the pie
four and twenty black birds
hiding feefyefoefum i smell
blood our son growing
weed      in the backyard
under the bird feeder

“dissed at the dance” Cordelia Hanemann/ new stanza

keeps me on edge
honed    hunter watching
for signs in those red eyes
listening in his music
for the cadence of chaos

it is my music that lives
hides dies in his sins
dies irae do i need those sins
to feel like a mother
MMM (other)

it’s 95 degrees outside burning
where six months ago
snow collected in drifts

now three birds dance
in the birdbath while the white
cat hunts watches
listens for birdsong

i hear another music
no words can touch
learn to dance alone

Cordelia Hanemann is currently a practicing writer and artist in Raleigh, NC. Her work has appeared in numerous journals: Mainstreet Rag, Connecticut River Review, and Laurel Review; anthologies, Well-Versed Reader, Heron Clan IV and Kakalak; in her chapbook, Through a Glass Darkly. Recently featured poet for Negative Capability Press and The Alexandria Quarterly, she is working on a first novel about her Cajun roots.