Poetry by Jennifer Browne

      Dan Finnen CC




Rendering 


1.
Hand-dipped beeswax 
candles hang over dowels, 
a connection at the wick 
what persists between them. 


2. 
It is the body of the bee 
that makes wax, chewing
chemistry of saliva that 
softens, makes it pliable. 


3. 
I tell myself: 
Do not think 
of his abdomen, 
of his mouth, 
of his tongue. 


4. 
I know the yellow-stuck shades,
bees’ full pollen baskets. We have
walked the same fields, buzzing.


5. 
My hair smells of phosphorus, 
burned matchstick, and I think 
that we have been one ignited
thing breathing, transformed. 


6.
render (v.) The sense of "reduce," in reference to fats, "clarify by boiling or steaming" also is from late 14c. The meaning "hand over, yield up, deliver" is recorded from c. 1400


7.
Mystery of hive, 
in their short lives, 
such sweetness, 
their cooperation. 


8. 
You have said we 
are two organisms
sharing one heart.  


9. 
Combs are melted 
to render the wax, 
which needs to be
filtered of debris: 
pollen, undeveloped
pupa, lost wings. 


10. 
render (v.) late 14c., rendren, rendre, "repeat, say again, recite; translate," from Old French rendre "give back, present, yield" (10c.) and Medieval Latin rendere, from Vulgar Latin *rendere, a variant of Latin reddere "give back, return, restore,"


11. 
Throughout the day, I see you, 
see us, as pollen, as the bees, 
as the bees’ chewing mandibles, 
the honey scent left in the wax. 


12.
In the dipping repetition
of the candles’ individual 
becoming, they can’t be 
permitted to touch. 
It would ruin everything. 


13. 
I think of your 
abdomen, your 
mouth, your 
tongue. 


14. 
Patience. 
The weights to which 
the wicks are tied make 
them what they are.


15. 
I can’t tell what it is 
that we are making, 
are becoming, but 
I like the x of wax, 
of hexagon, a kiss. 


16. 
In the historical-site 
gift shop, beeswax 
candles are tucked 
into boxes, like beds
like coffins. Cotton 
wick loops at one 
end, smooth bodies 
tapering. To burn, 
they have to be cut. 


*Etymologies from Online Etymology Dictionary, www.etymonline.com






Passer domesticus
House Sparrow 

A flight feather juts from his wing, 
little sparrow bold enough to sit 
on the cafe table, land the edge  
of a paper sandwich boat. I’ll 
read, later, that those feathers 
are loose, will fall in flight for one 
to find while walking. You’ve had 
that magic, the dead floating back 
to say what you want to hear. 
In that moment, I only wanted 
to hear more of your sweetening 
voice, cooing him to your hand 
to smooth him into wholeness. 
Little one, our broken parts are 
healing in their ways. Everything
that falls will nourish something 
else, the feathers on the sidewalk, 
the brushed or offered crumbs. 





​Declaration: Regarding Frost Heave 

I wake thinking of frost heave, its opening the soil to drifting seed, mechanical, like claw tillers, my mother sending me to quiet use, readying the garden, but then I read about perennials pushed into exposure, the cold, the drying wind, imagine the surprise of settled sea thrift at having been cast out, fine roots broken by what I want to call its home. While the worm is stretching to its death, the robin pulls. Everywhere, everywhere, another little space breaks in the earth for something else to come. 





Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions, 2024) and the poetry chapbooks whisper song (tiny wren publishing, 2023) and The Salt of the Geologic World (Bottlecap Press, 2023). Her work has recently appeared in Poets for Science, Humana Obscura, Trailer Park Quarterly, and One Sentence Poems. She lives in Frostburg, Maryland, where she serves as director of the Frostburg State University Center for Literary Arts.