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Corinne Dekkers is a Canadian-American poet. Her work can be found through Tolsun Books, Denver Quarterly, Smartish Pace, and elsewhere. She lives in Mississippi.


— after Graham Foust

The animal market makes a living

of selling our forests back to us. How

many orbits circle one maple and

how many eyes paint lidless

around it? Cherry resin smooths

beyond dovetail a knot-notch and hooks

silver the sunfish fanned to a wall.

From outside we push the domestic in.


At evening the wolf tourmalines

brings all the birds black

and the etching of the river

shears perpetually Tivoli in morning

and when the wolf leaves you leave

too three bright jets along the porch

an inverse of where you aren’t

alone our giant still breathing


— after James Turrell’s Roden Crater

Consider the edge of blue:

In Jerome you are the blur

lilting the mountain falling

behind you a verdant rush

of your edges

the crumble of haunted

and city and

in Jerome you are

a picture of you

You are a picture of you

in the cathedral in crater

a caldera

a picture in all the days lined

to its construction


If we grew pictures

from the trees used

to build this house

these rooms after

brick clean washed

they’d be Queen

Anne’s lace little

cloud hearts top

brimmed white in

their telling north

east wind to settle

low out back past

half-circle stalks

pressing sloe eyes

up for ten a.m.

I will draw nothing

but vessels from here

on out windglasses

champagne bottles

only no swords no

halves no cuts

to the swimming past

months explaining

spaces lines of white

waves folding black

up for winter trains:

spots to sit to read

your name away from

the outline it makes

underground now and

now away from that lot

of hard breathing that

keeps the robin’s egg

in the holding forest

greened solid to rock

split lime where

the heart should be


Your lovers light boxes shake ladles silver

still to strike three inches tall one inch

across this binding this hour distance

bronzeburnished pooling stonefish vessels

sulfur rungs sheets wound pacific

grace to bear your faith restored your

eyes Orion crooked long waiting night

off center long promise anchored stoic

settled for bed just not for keeps

Let me call you the oil you carry bathwater

greenflashed slim prophecy sloping your

skin to ask again two lettered as twilight

slows the basement


in the dream no one sees you unless obliquely

your rose markers rosecompact press

shore and shore silt and hand and try

to dig you out


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