You said, Yes, that was all
I needed the promise
I asked the quince for red
buds, all I needed
bark with bud like berries like blood.
When we ask our Russian friend,
the hardship thieves sprout out of ground.
Our spying self sits up at night, frozen
in extremes, shivered with mercury,
pouring over pocketfuls of candlelight
bathed in a birthday wish. We have pinched
her Russian pain. We think we know, but
have not shared her fear like a gift.
From where you lie, a canvas
on a far wall glows ochre—
encaustic ground, a mottled surface
smoothed over linen.
You hear the scrape of cauterium
spreading the warm custard
Janet Norman Knox’s poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and have appeared in Rhino, Diner, Seattle Review, Adirondack Review, Southeast Review, Cranky Literary Journal, Red Mountain Review, Diagram, Pearl, and in the anthologies Pontoon 6, 7, and 8 and Red, White, and Blues (Iowa University Press).