a poem by dan rosenberg

Palisade


Between the trunks,

the shadow suggests



an opening. Her shoulders

are coils wrought



and bound. Ribs

rise, ribs fall. Made



where the sun wasn’t,

she admits a breach:



an aquifer (confined)

expresses pressure.



Inside the borehole,

the ancient water rises.



So many trees

stripped and staked,



lonely as drunks

leaning against each



other. Nevertheless,

her defenses gnarl.



Below, the earth leaking,

an artesian flow.





"Palisade" originally appeared in Salt Hill.

Dan Rosenberg is the author of The Crushing Organ (Dream Horse Press, 2012) and cadabra (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2015). He has also written two chapbooks, A Thread of Hands (Tilt Press, 2010) and Thigh's Hollow (Omnidawn, forthcoming 2015), and he co-translated Miklavž Komelj's Hippodrome (Zephyr Press, forthcoming 2015). His work has won the American Poetry Journal Book Prize and the Omnidawn Poetry Chapbook Contest. Rosenberg earned an M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and a Ph.D. from The University of Georgia. He teaches literature and creative writing at Wells College and co-edits Transom.