Andrea Jurjević

Aubade with the Marking Scent of Tobacco, Sweat, Sores

Dear, the anemone can’t hear the wind,
and next to the herbs that spring and wilt,

women squat, the wings of their pelvises
low and wide as in childbirth. They never forget,

the old women, how the dogs yelped
while men’s diamond-shaped hands

pawed across their small, walnut-like breasts,
pressed their backs against farmhouses,

marked slim tulip signets. How they understand,
embody, short-lived positions, how right now,

as they start to get up, bend over thyme, the wind
stoops the blue anemone and sweeps the ground,

the faint rustle of I want, I want, not different
than the waking lover, blunt through sleep.

Andrea Jurjević’s poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Midwest Quarterly, The Rag, Harpur Palate, Raleigh Review, Barrelhouse, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. She is the 2013 Robinson Jeffers Tor Prize Winner. A native of Croatia, she lives in Atlanta where she translates, paints, and teaches writing.
MORE POEMS
  • blue
    Lauren Michele Jackson