ditch,

the poetry that matters

Janice D. Soderling

Janice D. Soderling has her writing base in Sweden but hails from the United States. Her poetry/fiction/translations have appeared in the print journals Malahat Review, Fiddlehead, Event, and Windsor Review, Glimmer Train Stories (first place winner), Beloit Poetry Journal. Work recently on-line: Centrifugal Eye, Literary Bohemian, Frostwriting, Hobble Creek Review, Prick of the Spindle, and soon forthcoming at JMWW, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Umbrella Journal, Soundzine, and Shit Creek Review.  Forthcoming in print at Blue Unicorn (US) and Anon (Scotland).

Whenever I hear the word love I release
the safety pin on my panties



Goosestepping along the beach,
            looking for something to
            believe in, I
Noticed all the little clams
            poking their round, bald heads
            inquisitively out of the sand
            to see what was causing the
            commotion.
Most of them sported a large,
            luxuriant mustachio, such
            as the one N wore,
Though many were eyeless.
"G’day, mate," one of them, balder
            and bolder than the rest,
            remarked gravely.  "My
            name is F and I must
            inform you that the author
            is dead
Since a long time ago, so there is
            no point in your frantically
            pacing back and forth like
            that, we would like to get
            some sleep, d’ya mind?"

 

 

 

 

Feet

 

There was this woman who could fly, her feet
Flapping her to glorious heights, though they
            were only
Duckbilled-platypus-size, these webbed
            appendages
Attached to shapely legs, were more powerful
            than you might imagine.
She was a big woman too, but when she twitched
            her broad tail, and kicked off her red
            spike heels, a kind of reverse Cinderella
            act, she
Could paddle herself (and her partner(s)) to
            previously unknown heights.
“It is nice being angel-like without the
            cumbersome wings,”
And
“Wingless is anonymous,”
Were some of her thoughts as she lay flat
            on her back or not, but smiling,
Oh, web-footed woman, this soaring song is for
            you from all of us who try to fly without
            wings.

 

 

Aubade for Catatonia

Hoarse cries of stock doves fly out of her mouth.
A cloud-heavy day edges close as a razor.

Pale butterflies abandon their harps,
lurch like drunkards along the broken rail.

In the violence of the forest, a long-eared hare

stiffens on its hind legs. There. Listening to

pine needles stitching small seams
in raveled dreams. The wind comes,

and turns, and comes again.
Turns.  Comes.  Turns.

 

 

 

 

 

Coprophilia

You throw out the bait.
Shiny.  A familiar smell.
I limp around it;
a bee seeking nectar,
a shark drawn by blood,
but warier
than the first time you caught me.
I remember everything that
I haven’t forgotten.
It was delicious.  It was.

A tree full of squirrels
caterwauling.
“Do it!  Do it!”
Licking their thin, furry lips.
Fresh yolk clots their white bibs.
Pale eggshells litter the grass.
Something moving there.  The wind,
ghostly warblers,
a jaw talking sweet, talking shit,
and the green-winged flies closing in.

 

 

 

 

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