Four Poems by Dianna Henning

 

To Measure Love with a Yardstick 
 

“I am offering this poem to you 
Since I have nothing else to give.” 
-Jimmy Santiago Baca

 

There were stars. There was walking with a lover. 
There were glances, a whisper, Should we? 
There was a jaunt towards a local B&B, 
a door opening onto a bed. A question, 
Dare we? There was flesh upon flesh, 
no hesitation, no going back. There was 
a voice that sang as it slid down my ears, 
a sweetness that still haunts me. It tasted 
of honey and sounded like St. Cecilia’s Mass. 
It was holy. There were stars burning 
at the edge of hearing, strokes of tenderness. 
There was a reluctant Goodbye my love,  
I’m married. Nevertheless, much remained. 
A heart filled with love; a yardstick well trained.

 

 

Indenture 

 

You can love once or twice 
with great magnitude. Then 
  

you must spend years in recovery.  
What happens when it’s over is what 
 
remains, this indenture to memory. Today,  
the taste of his skin suffices. 
  

Don’t take me for a mad woman 
or shrew. All day I’ve thirsted. 
 

The river over-flowed as we lay on the ground. 
  

I am your my. You are my May. 
May I? May I, you’d asked. The river answered. 
 

Already, I’m recalling 
the Yuba, its fluctuance, 
 

its greed. 

 

 

What Rilke Might Say Were He to Return 

 

My importance weighed heavily on me. 

Bricks in a flour sack chained to my back. 

 

I wandered from village to village, 
hoping to quench my thirst at one fountain 
 
or another, and all the while 
my significance weighted me down, 
 

my footsteps faltering, 
as I grappled to regain balance, 

my face splashed with irate fountain-water. 
 

No idle villagers stepped up  

to claim my importance. 
 

It belonged solely to me and me alone. 

 

At night, my self-importance curled up beside me 

as if my plucky mate, 
 

and I couldn’t toss it out of bed like an old whore, 
not for the life of me.

 

 

Unrelenting 
 
Harpoon me as much as you want, 
I won’t renege on this: 
 
there’s a place where sadness flowers 
without any likeness to grief. 
 
Drive hot ice through my shoulder-blade, 
it makes no difference, 
fire becomes me. 
 
You once stubbornly trained me 
to use your words, 
to become your verbal puppet. 
 
But I failed terribly.  
 
Now, go oil the sea 
with your ego. I’m going down 
to fish the deep, 
 
to pull that flower in around me.

 

 

Dianna Henning 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: Women in a Golden State, 2025; Visions 2025; The Power of the Feminine, Vol. II; One Art Poetry, 2024; Folkways Press; 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 Tule Review; The Lake, UK; California Quarterly; The Plague Papers, Blue Heron Review, and New American Writing. Nomination by The Adirondack Review for a Pushcart Prize a few years back. MFA in Writing ’89, Vermont College. She recently read with poet Lara Gularte, Poet Laureate Emeritus of El Dorado County. Recently nominated by Blue Heron Review for a Pushcart for her poem “In the Collage of my Mind/I’m a Simple Design,” her ninth nomination. She has a new book “Rucksacks for the Leaf Cat” accepted by Finishing Line Press and due out Jan, 2026.