Poem #2: Prose poetry chain

Dana Elkun

MIDNIGHT: EQUATOR

Not sleeping. Not reading. Not sliding my hand between your bowed legs. And yet. The room is flush with potential. A ballet of exes tiptoes around our bed. Your mother folds a tan towel so neatly it creases like a sheet. And our ancestors get to know each other at a buffet, translating nosh to isst to eat. I'm too full to join yet but maybe tomorrow.

Read poem No.3

It's not like it actually exists. And yet. To cross we must perform specific rituals: sheep, veil, string around wrists, shattering glass. And we can't know how long it is, really, without a mathematical constant. But given 12 hours of day and 12 hours of night, each feels complete. Meet me in Gabon. We'll walk around for a while, then decide.

Dana Elkun

Dana Elkun lives in Boulder where she currently teaches writing at University of Colorado. She has also taught courses at University of Washington, University of Arizona Poetry Center, and Naropa University. Dana's poems have appeared recently in Bellingham Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, MARGIE and Puerto del Sol, among other literary journals.