Janice Krasselt Medin graduated with an M.A. in English from Ohio University and has two books of poetry:
Remembering the Truth (Temenos Publishing, 2006) and a chapbook Communion of Voices (Big Table Publishing
Co, April 2009). Her poems have appeared in several journals such as Up the Staircase, Gander Press Review,
Boston Literary Magazine, Alimentum (as menupoems), and others. Janice currently resides in New Haven,
Connecticut with her partner.
Remembering the Truth (Temenos Publishing, 2006) and a chapbook Communion of Voices (Big Table Publishing
Co, April 2009). Her poems have appeared in several journals such as Up the Staircase, Gander Press Review,
Boston Literary Magazine, Alimentum (as menupoems), and others. Janice currently resides in New Haven,
Connecticut with her partner.
Photo by Chris Whitney
Copyright © 2009 The Honey Land Review All rights reserved.
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Unauthorized use of graphics or literary material is strictly prohibited.
All content contained within this site is protected by copyright laws.
Unauthorized use of graphics or literary material is strictly prohibited.
| A Drama: Beyond Dusk Janice Krasselt Medin |
The moon spotlights my grandmother’s
angry mouth, that tongue as volatile
as hemlock. Moments before
my grandfather had warmed his hands
on her waist, her coat caping his arms.
Then the moon rose almost holy, sudden
on their young faces. Bending
to admire crocus, my grandfather
fingered its purple leaves
like a rosary. Beside him, she shredded
the leaves laughing at her small mounds
of purple swollen in snow. He walked
away swiftly as if his part were over,
as if nothing mattered except that
for a few seconds he remembered
loving all of her at once.
angry mouth, that tongue as volatile
as hemlock. Moments before
my grandfather had warmed his hands
on her waist, her coat caping his arms.
Then the moon rose almost holy, sudden
on their young faces. Bending
to admire crocus, my grandfather
fingered its purple leaves
like a rosary. Beside him, she shredded
the leaves laughing at her small mounds
of purple swollen in snow. He walked
away swiftly as if his part were over,
as if nothing mattered except that
for a few seconds he remembered
loving all of her at once.
| The Honey Land Review Fall 2009 Volume 2, Issue 1 |
