Maureen N. McLane

She travels to Greece on a boat with Havelock Ellis, finds herself in Egypt just when King Tut’s tomb is opened, gets photographed by Man Ray, has sherry with Elizabeth Bowen, runs into Arthur Waley at Iseult Gonne’s, becomes Freud’s analysand in 1933, reads her poetry before the future Queen Elizabeth II during the Second World War. One wonders why there has been no biopic, or at least a mini-series. (Please, no one do this.)

The magpie came back to the courtyard & its deep chill the magpie was a jay was a jackdaw was a bird in Germany if not a German bird. Whither the Carolingians and their monks whose recipes called for cinnamon from the Far East? You say cinnamon, I say cassia, though we’ve never between us tasted the famously fragrant spice Cinnamomum zeylanicum, nor the aromatic bark qirfah which...

bees riddle the astersor are they daisieshave you a thoughtor a pansy for me

the lenticelsof cherry treeshave cracked opento a deeper barkcould your skinnot open all alongthe seam of autumn

there’s a gashin the mindan old slippinginto a reservoiryes/no        yes/nofrog splash

along the bus routea hinge of wingsbutterfly thoraxof the breathing possibleyes/noyes/no

bees...

The moon rose in the skyas the moon rose in the poemthe new held in the lap of the oldand we talked about the weatherand imminent disaster forestalledsince we were together.

Comrades, I am with youunder this very full moon!and we shall not yet set forthbut will talk about the shapeof things and thereby shapethis hour this day if notthis life –

Orange zinnias. Lettuces bolted,some salvageable. Babiesand teargas on Facebook.Money’s an algorithm.

Someone’s got rhythm.Did iambic pentametermarch along with British soldiers –maybe. I take my

waking slow, click among linksin the morning in bed –is it a cocoon, is it Procrustean –O my modern self too long lefton the shelf with old booksand expired cans of...