Maybe I am a thwarted novelist. So many of my poems tell stories, unfolding a narrative in a few lines. Dashes of worlds, character snapshots. All completed without running out of breath or steam. So many short pieces. I wonder often if I have the stamina for a novel.





My brown knee, once
scraped pinkly, now
flashes a new dusk
from its pores    round
dark suns turned
supernova by increment

I imagine their plan
marshaling code
at cellular level
melanin called up
for the thankless
skin-retinting task


[If you’re enjoying my poems, why not check me – Brenda Joyce Patterson – out on social media: Facebook, Twitter, and my website. Or sign up for my newsletter.]

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