Dorsey Craft
The Pirate Anne Bonny Advises Jane Eyre
after Charlotte Bronte
Jane, watch me close this time, the scarlet
folds of this cape, how the drapes velvet
a man, crush his musk to dandelions
and black his lashes to strings of silk.
And I can wide your eyes to the rough
reverse, leather holsters and sun-bleached boots
that coarse my hair to a tangle of red,
a thick of fish a man might grow
and almost the shadow of a beard
along my neck. Jane, it is not so intricate
as your sketches. Changing your dress is easier
than striking your darkest dreams down in coal.
And while we’re talking, I can teach you
the trick of your attic twin, how a cutlass paints
with skin and red ink, how to hang a scalp
as lightly as you daub the meager perfume
on your lily neck. Before you fall asleep
in that culvert, sweat of fever a-growing
beneath your bonnet, remember
that you’ve never swallowed coral or prayed
to the songs of whales and young Adele
seems sharp enough to me, whatever jabs
he throws her way, I’d love to see her swing
a dagger across his brow as swift as a step
in a reel. Let’s all to sea—you, the twin, the girl
and me—and build a blue-walled manor house
with chandeliers of gold and aristocratic bone.
Dorsey Craft holds degrees from McNeese State University and Clemson University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, The Massachusetts Review, Southern Indiana Review, Sugar House Review and elsewhere. She is currently a Ph.D student in poetry at Florida State and the Assistant Poetry Editor of The Southeast Review.
Return to March 2019 Edition
after Charlotte Bronte
Jane, watch me close this time, the scarlet
folds of this cape, how the drapes velvet
a man, crush his musk to dandelions
and black his lashes to strings of silk.
And I can wide your eyes to the rough
reverse, leather holsters and sun-bleached boots
that coarse my hair to a tangle of red,
a thick of fish a man might grow
and almost the shadow of a beard
along my neck. Jane, it is not so intricate
as your sketches. Changing your dress is easier
than striking your darkest dreams down in coal.
And while we’re talking, I can teach you
the trick of your attic twin, how a cutlass paints
with skin and red ink, how to hang a scalp
as lightly as you daub the meager perfume
on your lily neck. Before you fall asleep
in that culvert, sweat of fever a-growing
beneath your bonnet, remember
that you’ve never swallowed coral or prayed
to the songs of whales and young Adele
seems sharp enough to me, whatever jabs
he throws her way, I’d love to see her swing
a dagger across his brow as swift as a step
in a reel. Let’s all to sea—you, the twin, the girl
and me—and build a blue-walled manor house
with chandeliers of gold and aristocratic bone.
Dorsey Craft holds degrees from McNeese State University and Clemson University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, The Massachusetts Review, Southern Indiana Review, Sugar House Review and elsewhere. She is currently a Ph.D student in poetry at Florida State and the Assistant Poetry Editor of The Southeast Review.
Return to March 2019 Edition