Anita Tanner

A December Poem

Under the dome above, we look up,
singing children’s canticles,
our own domed hearts
clutched by the promise

Traveling the Interstate after My Little Brother’s Funeral

We slow.
      What is this? Why?
            We ride along, our eyes,

Osmond Ward Chapel, Now Demolished

Sometimes from the thresholdof these doorswe are greeted by another self,another worldwe wish to worship, incarnationthe tithe we offerfor such a crossing: we, seeking the divine,the divine leaning toward us,fading coal of memory igniting into…

anamnesis: confronting God in the flesh

Listen the Out Loud version of this poem here. 1. a patient’s accountof medical history,a reiteration of conditionscontracted by mortality,a form of proud flesh’sgranulation over a wound,a raised tissue massdelineating impact to sayhere is pain,…

Third Place: Penitent Magdalene, Donatello

Shock of agingin a wooden sculpture—more than yearsdisplayed here,her gauntand weathered faceportraying time had its way—sunken eyes,broken teeth,parched and haggard lips. The cathedralof her handsforms a gothic archbelow her chinsuggesting prayer,her frail body embracedby heavy…

Advent: Moose in Moonlight

Creek Skating

Divided

His call came dressed 
In honor 
As the President grasped 
For a handshake, 

They Have Closed the Church My Father Helped Build

where he sawed through his finger 
now perpetually stiff, 
paid three assessments 

Evenings: His Church Calling

The sound burrs in my head 
like a racket of angry birds 
swirling from the sky. 
He’s gone again; 

Navel

I drive by a red farmhouse 
in the setting sun. Orange morning 
darts through rippled glass. 
High-glossed linoleum 

On a Denver Bus

Out of the cold Christmas streets 
we climb to an old woman 
raising her scarfed face to us, 
scarred and hollow-nosed, 

Chokecherries

Dark berries abound 
like full moons; 
the sight of ripeness 
in sunstruck orbs 

Deity

Who is he from the Sunday pulpit 
acquiring the air of sins 
with his lecture, 
hell’s woes never hidden 

Counting the Cost

It wasn’t the silver balance scale the teacher used for a centerpiece. Initially I thought it attractive, effective as a visual aid. It wasn’t her manner or her voice, all appealing, that offended me. It…

Return (for my father)

Over the terra cotta earth 
your truck like a cleft-foot goat 
grazes homeward. 
The down of trees in the hills 

The Book Handed Her

Wanting to be one of twelve princesses 
to disappear down a trap door 
underneath her bed each night 
and dance to weariness in a haunted place 

Going Dark

            To escape from pursuers 
I flee to the car, 
gun the gas down the highway. 
            They’re on my tail. 

His Sermon

He says there’s very little truth 
in the world 
and he can’t wait to go out, 
preach, and spread his own— 
like he has the corner on it. 

Early Winter

Home from the dance in a howling blizzard. 
The kitchen door blown open. 
A heap of snow swirled onto linoleum. 
I’m entranced at the violence, 

What Remains

Day rolls over, 
pulling at the covers of dusk. 
Lights come on in sequence 
and before they go off 

Gaining Darkness

Going down to the cellar 
a child awakens to tendrils 
of winter vegetables 
that elongate like white worms.

Learning from the Land

Long after my father’s kindeys failed, I keep in a willow box under my bed the two letters he wrote to me in the thirty years since I left home. Mother did practically all the…

Lily Foot

Did I hold the tiny Chinese shoe
or simply gaze at it 
encased in museum glass 
in the old mining town 

We Write What We Want to Know

I want to know why water has the right of way
where God dwells near zenith or nadir 
why you see stars better peripherally 
why some people have a fear of trees 

Learning to Disappear

They say there is a Buddha 
                        In each grain of sand 

We begin huge and rigid. Life grinds 
away at us. We grind against one another.

Proud Flesh

Dad doctors Rudy’s leg, 
torn and jagged 
just above the hoof 
enmeshed in barbed wire. 

Miracle of Wood

—that wood could come in 
that thin and blonde 
for kindling 
after the dark bark, 
after the ax whack 
and the crack 
of white opening, 
the stria of wood 
gouging, indenting 
my armloaded skin 

We Were Not Consulted

We couldn’t say 
            the yes that would loosen 
                        our grip, tutoring us 
            in doing without. 
Some things were simply snatched away. 

Yahrzeit

This morning I light red candles 
and set them on the sill, 
daring the breeze 
through an open window 
to tease the flames. 

Afield

Just off the highway 
in the setting sun 
cattle gather on a hill. 
My foot lets up 

Fidelity to Objects

Necktie

Abba: The Name of God

Listening to My Parents Through the Ventilator Shaft

Let Rocks Their Silence Break

Grass Whistles

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