Poetry by Joshua Davis

​Case Number B9406017

In a season of bindweed and fire
came the day when the plain van appeared,
when the screen door whined, scraping.
when the father turned (handcuffed).
That house sat mute--hollowed of rustlings.

 
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In Our Movie about Virginia Woolf,

light runs, yolk-thick, over a sea like one hundred umbrellas opened upside down. Clouds smolder. If you have to name that gray, call it empyrean. A hazy sun swings. Clouds with the long necks of animals coast. Notes come in uneasy chords, the way a woman might flatten her palm against the screen door.

Try a fade. No. Slower. Overexpose the frame. Let light singe the edges. Cut to the long shot of the mirror the color of ink.

Joshua holds an MFA from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine, an MFA from the University of Mississippi, and an M.A. from Pittsburg State University. Recent poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Apalachee Review, Muse/A, and The Museum of Americana. He is a doctoral candidate in Literature at Ohio University, and he now lives near Tampa, Florida.

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