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Haley Wooning lives in California with her partner and cat, Puck. She is fond of poetry, Athenian Tragedies, Tolkien and Dragon Age. She studied English Literature at Sacramento State University and runs a small lit mag called Figroot Press. 1. dulled rebirth against the dolorous brink of insufficient sea I wear the doeskin’s hath and hew, hallow, ocher and waiting – my lady’s praise left that murmurous, murderous minstrel in the mingled evensong beneath the creeping breeze of the soul master bard of her labored litany clusters in chorister, halts, slows hums to bleak pulse and ends it was Spring when I first found her, emerald and fair, sun at zenith and to horizon it fell the hours go sodden, the minutes as rough and cold as molten lead brutal in absence and heavy I saw her months ago some shadow , looming and the sun never returned the same, gone Orcus and sullen grief, meseemeth, split from the riverbed of all things, draws back into the frosted soul my maiden of the moon, Selene, some wolf has come here with nothing on the mind but blood and death’s sad self most sweet dawn speaks with foreflame, paw, begging shedding light on the massacre of misunderstanding 2. moonglow , astonished , washes the marsh from north to south interpose, sickle the loneliness for another era all this foul distance you and I inhabit irrevocable 3. rasp and sheer of the morning the atoms, the handshaped stain rises, the sun with his red armful of arrows blue hue and exact, this hard remembering uniquely desolate, wolf, whose sleep I have stolen in my vague graceful hinges we are like children who wade the river and forget still as a luxury 4. beneath the architectured veil, frost and rue work their way to the earth’s surface coming to find me murderous as Medeia, the mute sharp wild knife she sharpens for my slaughter fragment of the moonglow’s substance she is frightened by her own voice and the staggering lengths of story Pan is in the fir trees, unthinkable caught in pine filth and obsolete dark gone old and dead long ago in great quantities later to be crushed from our burden night scythes the head of this forest’s warden, whose every hundred eyes cave beneath this slumbering feeling of our fall along her various edges, oblivion, oblivious and audible fog condensed into black water on the hardened forewings of this valley, snapping into courtship now you, now you 5. moon a frail cold bit of silver gristle low in the fading dark of sky over the lower garden, night has left us in vehemence moon, air, dawn exasperated , rasp, cinder the frail facts fall and what I wish for is clarity, but instead I become merciless brazen into the flat, coalesced horizon
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