Fall 2005

Jennifer Whiting


Jenifer Whiting is a writer and book history scholar currently living in the Delaware Valley.
The Desert    

In paintings, the little dog
by the lady's feet is full of meaning�
someone forgot to let her out before the sitting
and the artist charges by the hour.

In my own hallway, a deadly triptych
hangs on my thirst by a wooden nail:
a jackal, ostrich, a ball of wax.

I've lost my honor.
It has fallen through the hole in my pocket
like a dirty penny. I never missed it.

This daily work, it's tiring.
Coming to steadfastness, slowly.



Tobit And Sarah    

This is not the old days when a drachma
gets you a guardian angel for the
two-day journey to Rages. Costs have gone up.

Blindness. Dead husbands.
The root of agony: the neighbors and the maid.

For a safe journey: ignore the whispers.
Know: I am the duplicate document,
a contract that is always being signed.




Jennifer Whiting: Poetry
Copyright © 2005 The Cortland Review Issue 30The Cortland Review