ISSUE 30
Fall 2005

Jennifer Whiting

 

Jenifer Whiting is a writer and book history scholar currently living in the Delaware Valley.
The Desert    


In paintings, the little dog
by the lady's feet is full of meaning—
someone forgot to let her out before the sitting
and the artist charges by the hour.

In my own hallway, a deadly triptych
hangs on my thirst by a wooden nail:
a jackal, ostrich, a ball of wax.

I've lost my honor.
It has fallen through the hole in my pocket
like a dirty penny. I never missed it.

This daily work, it's tiring.
Coming to steadfastness, slowly.
 

 

 

Tobit And Sarah    


This is not the old days when a drachma
gets you a guardian angel for the
two-day journey to Rages. Costs have gone up.

Blindness. Dead husbands.
The root of agony: the neighbors and the maid.

For a safe journey: ignore the whispers.
Know: I am the duplicate document,
a contract that is always being signed.

 

 

 

Jennifer Whiting: Poetry
Copyright © 2005 The Cortland Review Issue 30The Cortland Review