a poetry e-zine










Poems By Janie Hofmann


The Kindness of Fog

You were unkind to my hands,
pointing with your eyes
at my purple veins
unraveled like yarn.

Pointing with your eyes,
the morning fog
unraveled yarn
hiding my flaws,

the morning fog
like china holding weak tea--
my flaws
in fine bones

of china. The weak tea
pale and cold
as old fine bones
with no pulse or skin.

Pale and cold
were your eyes
at my pulse and skin.
Then the mauve hue of my veins

stared back at your eyes.
I once put charcoal in your coffee,
the hue of my veins
dark in the white light.

I put charcoal in your coffee
to clear the grainy fog
dark in the white light
of the china cup.

To clear the grainy fog
I used a trick my mother learned in Baton Rouge,
it was old and patient and warm
and you were unkind to my hands.

Janie Hofmann is a writer from Vancouver, BC. She has worked on a farm, been a dishwasher and had about twenty other odd jobs. She likes it when things get a little surreal and eerie, and to experiment with prose and form poems. She has had poems published in Elimae, Cerebral Catalyst, Underground Voices, Southern Ocean Review and Southern Hum. She also has a short story in Static Movement and been accepted by Bewildering Stories.


Copyright 2007  Chantarelle's Notebook