Four Poems by Dianna Mackinnon Henning

 

Between Places 

 
I married all the right men. It was the lovers I had trouble with, 
an old woman on the plane confided, a stranger. 
 

That made me think about my own life, its divorce, 
serial lovers, fantasies, remarriage. 
 

The lovers didn’t mean to be unfaithful or difficult. 
They, too, were in-between places. 
 
The old woman next to me reached into her purse, pulled 
out a crinkled photo of her fifth husband, saying: 

 

He’s the best. Gonna meet him in Topeka. 
How many times she’d shown that picture was anyone’s guess. 
 
When we landed in Topeka, I wished her good luck. 
She squeezed my hand, saying: “Honey, I lied. He’s only a lover.”

 

 

Believe this or don’t believe it

My ventriloquist sister returned from her travels. 

She’d flown to Spain to find a Spaniard, and once there 
 
discovered he’d skipped country to seduce a French woman 
he’d met at a bar. Sis and the Spaniard were nearly  

 

together, but missed each other in passing. 
She wrote him once or twice per my advice, 
 
got no response. I sent her back to Granada, 
told her to snag a handsome matador, 
 
but she got gored in the process. 
“That’ll teach you,” I said, “To run with the bulls.” 
 
What I have left of my sister is a resin face  

and no sound. Ventriloquist 
 
in Latin means, to speak from the stomach, 
but she could no longer throw her voice, 
 
her stomach having moved to Barcelona, 
which meant, I no longer had a sister.

 

 

My House is Restless. My Bed Sod.

 

Even if the dream rat decides to visit 

and my sleep is nearly blown,  

I’ll roll onto my pillow 

as though it were a raft 

to keep me afloat. 

 

Because ancient bodies  

of Pompeii once hugged lava, 

as though snug beside  

a nude lover,  

and the hapless buried child, 

sucking his thumb 

was all too real, 

shows the dream rat 

once accomplished his magic. 

 

Rest assured, Mount Vesuvius 

will, in the future, blow its pipe 

loudly throughout the land, 

as though announcing 

it all comes down 

to ash and more ash.

 

 

At the Goodbye Door 

Wind knocks on your door; a mackintosh 
slung over his arm, a sigh like coyotes,  

 

their rheumy eyes contagious  

with stars, tongues slavered with hope— 
 
wind’s coat reminiscent of ones you donated to the thrift, 
collars roughed up, threads a reminder of what binds— 
 
how we were together long enough to retrieve the inexplicable. 
Satiated, we purged ourselves: You at the goodbye door, 
 
me sweeping the floor where you stood and always a crooner 
in the background singing, Love’s a Difficult Wing. 

 

Dianna  Mackinnon Henning - Dianna taught through California Poets in the Schools, received several California Arts Council grants and taught poetry workshops through the William James Association’s Prison Arts Program, including Folsom Prison, and runs The Thompson Peak Writers’ Workshop. Publications, in part: Mocking Heart Review, 2024; Poet News, Sacramento; Worth More Standing, Poets and Activists Pay Homage to Trees; Voices; Artemis Journal, 2021 & 2022 & 2023; The Adirondack Review; Memoir Magazine; The Lake, UK; California Quarterly; The Plague Papers and New American Writing. Nomination by The Adirondack Review for a Pushcart Prize, her seventh nomination. MFA in Writing ’89, Vermont College.