Poems by Donelle Dreese

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End of the Road

by Donelle Dreese

From Canary Summer 2017

Donelle lives in the Little Miami River watershed in Cincinnati, Ohio.

(Isaac Cordal, Cement Eclipses)

From the wide berth of the road
you can see his miniature life

hands folded behind his back to consider
the rock and monolith of it all

a sculpted tiny man swallowed
by stark gravel and stone.

At the end of the road
there is no Emerald City

only a wizard-less nuclear power plant
smoking a twin death brew

big as a country
gray as dead elephants.

But the sky sweeps a bunting blue
and soul-deep green trees border the road

as if to say

the sublime streets where we all live
lead to the same blank, immaculate accident.

The Death of Rachel Carson--April 14, 1964

The battle of living things against cancer began so long ago that its origin is lost in time.      ~~Rachel Carson

by Donelle Dreese

From Canary Spring 2017

It had spread to her liver.
She never read the last letter

from Dorothy, the one that said--
I have come to a great sense of peace about you.

She said for all at last return to the sea.
Then death came whale-bursting

into her life, metastasizing
stirring its cellular gravel.

Denial is a disorderly thief
and resistance turns water to lead

so she let the thing flow through her
plunged her tired arm into the mud

felt the cool, thick mercy
against her skin, waited for the clay pack

to reclaim her fingerprints
until pain became impossible.

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