Poetry Showcase for Donna Dallas

Wretch is Renewed

Wretch knew she would make a
bollocks of it
Wretch knew the end when she began

Wretch had a dream that she 
was driving fast
around a treacherous cliff
she veered off and
as she torpedoed down
she realized
what an awful mess
she was
all the lives she complicated

when she awoke
she felt relieved
that is was just a nightmare
not her real death
and she laughed
with relief
picked up her lighter
smoked her peace to the Gods
felt it wasn’t enough
texted the dealer

This Eve

I believe in love
like I believe in 
the afterlife
or snarks and dragons

No one tells the truth anymore
like Mr. Hurtz
at the 7-Eleven 
he walked in
burst blood vessels 
exploding into each other
soaked all the white of his eyes
to bright lava 
he was hacking up a lung
we asked him if he’d been tested
he said it was a winter cold
as he spewed phlegm all into the air
like hell’s sprinkle
yeah we knew

I’m not gonna say
I’ll finish that novel
eat healthy
or save more
with all these commitments
year after year

Mr. Hurtz dead long before this eve
before a new spin on an already old
sickness and I hold in my hand
a glass of bubbly and think I might make it 
through this kinetic wave 
I’m feeling as sober as a clam
the music fills 
moon flirts
the glow from the fireworks

This year ain’t gonna be my faint cry for hope
or sinister salvation
I’m foaming at the mouth just to escape myself
the minute I see an exit I blow like the spout on a whale
dive under and up

Ever present death – slowly kills us
some sweet, some piercing
we are in for the long eve
death and I

Give me a bloody break 
so I can roll on in 
to the new year with a fever – a non-Covid fever
one to set me ablaze
rekindle a life put on hold
instead of a death watch

Mr. Hurtz somewhere up there 
damn you for not paying attention
but then I think 
we all have a death date
scrawled in our palm lines……

Perhaps there really are snarks and dragons 
even mermaids


It’s dark here
no stars
no sound

Every so often 
the rafters will creek 
or something scurries behind a wall
if this ain’t the longest damn night
without a smoke 
or a drink
nothin but dank water - which ain’t no drink

The sky keeps bullying more time 
to stay black
hold out
on morning
to keep me from
making any move

I step 
with the dead on my back
straight edge
never cozy up to nothin
I sleep without sound
or movement
no clock
I just know the time when
it is long 
like millennium - time 
is a sparrows’ death
over and over
in the attic
where it all took place

Lingers in wait
for my return
its’ hot breath
a mosquito in my ear

I’ll stay in
this one spot 
till daybreak
till the world comes back
with the light
Don’t want to startle in my sleep
wake to someone else’s death 
could mean my end


There’s a strip of a line
withered and decayed
it quivers while I

jump rope and
tangle myself up with
all those men

always at the same time 
with the same men 

I am a pro at hating
the ones I’ve loved with enormous
waves I surf

clean and easy through them
hot anger rises up and blasts
me like a meteorite

how could I not love being the bitch
always hang 
by sharp fingernails on the verge of some

precipice where love and hate 
swoon together in a funneling wind 
I just hang on 

for dear life 


I was eleven
in our kitchen
the yellow diamond ring
resting next to the sink
belonged to my great grandmother
the heirloom removed 
from my mother’s finger 
when she washed the dishes
or cleaned the house

My friend asked about it
as she eyed it with hunger
in my own hunger for any friendship
I disregarded it
until later 
the ring missing
and my friend peeled away quick
the two events stabbed so
wounds that forever warp my coffin

2 poems by Donna Dallas: “Riding Pegasus” & “No Zone-Don’t Go Zone”

Bio: Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to write under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly.  She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, SpillWords and Phantom Kangaroo.  Donna serves on the editorial team of Red Fez and New York Quarterly.


By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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