Jenne' Andrews is an American poet. She has three published chapbooks including the recent Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press 2013.

A full-length collection, Reunion, Lynx House Press, was published in 1983; after a long hiatus to raise Golden Retrievers in Colorado, recent work has appeared in The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review and Vox Populi, a journal of culture, politics and poetry published and edited by the august Michael Simms.

A bilingual collection of "Italiana," Bocca, Voce, Delirio, with translations by Lorenzo Luciani, will be released by Finishing Line at the end of 2016 and her latest collection, And Now, the Road, a finalist for the Autumn House prize in 2014, will be released by Salmon Poetry Ltd, Ireland, a highly regarded international house, Jessie Lendennie, Publisher, circa 2017.

Andrews holds the MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from Colorado State University, is a literary fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, and was full-time Poet in Residence for the St. Paul Schools from '74-78. She lived in St. Paul from 1971-78 during the first wave of the Twin Cities literary renaissance, and spent the summer of 1973 in Reggio Calabria, Italy.

The poet lives in northern Colorado's Poudre River Valley with her husband, fiction writer Jack Brooks; the couple has recently imported two British Golden Retrievers and expects a litter in June-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Poems with Biblical Twists-- New Challenge/One Shot

(first poem for One Shot is next post down-- take your pick!  Thanks-- J)

Eve Craves the Fruit of the Tree

Tonight I lay in the dark and imagined
that you came to the doorway
incarnate, vulnerable
Bringing yourself to me
A man to a woman.

Light shone in that absence
And I made you from that light
And thinking of this, dreaming it
I imagined that my own hands
Clasped and pressing against me
Were yours

I did not want to eat the bitter fruit
Again, from this crooked
Yew of longing
That juts from the granite face
Of the years.
We starved it
We said, what lack,
What tree.

But there it was and is
As I am now, you a mere footfall
across the house thin and resting
Where moonlight crosses your face.

I conjure the scent of your skin
Your eyes traveling me while I read to you,
Their tears :
From those filaments of near touch
I build
And still my own cry

And give you back
To myself
Clenching harder
Around the hunger
At the core of my being
Than if I were swallowing you
Living and whole, high
In my pythoness body.

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