Here are some more selected samples of Dianna Henning's poetry
Pulse Crazyhorse, Number 58, 2000
The bodies were drawn in a wagon by horse,
Dumped in a heap outside
The cobbler’s door. Each morning
He wrung his hands in awe—so many dead,
And each evening he had the corpses
Carted off because there was little he could do.
What do people think, I’m a magician?
Every so often he would lift the hand
Of one of the dead, check for a pulse.
On one such occasion a woman,
Her vital signs weak, showed signs of life.
The cobbler carried her to his sofa, laid her out.
The woman’s small wrist reminded him of bone china
His mother saved for holidays.
The cobbler was out of smelling salts,
So he opened a small can of especially
Pungent shoe wax, held it underneath
The woman’s nostrils until her eyelashes clicked
With the same sound crickets make
Each spring. When she opened her eyes
She was startled, dumbfounded by
Her arrival at his house. He elevated the back
Of her neck, hoping more shoe wax
Would land her on her feet, although
Admittedly, he felt soothed by her presence,
Reluctant to pack her off.
When his mother, right after the war,
Boxed up and sold their
china,
Meager as the few remaining pieces were,
He acquired the aftertaste of poverty—
Bones and everything scraps meant.
He made do though, built up his clientele.
How could he have foreseen that the dead
Would drop in, spittle-threads in the corners
Of their mouths? Leather was his medium,
Large sewing needles, good shears.
As far as he could tell, the woman recently
Dropped off as dead, knew neither her name
Nor her former household. With his fortune
Eagerly at hand, he rubbed his chin—yes,
A woman whose only need derived from a can
Of wax, its reviving aroma. Next day he
Set out a new sign on the cobblestone street,
“No More Dead,” as if one could determine such things,
And went on shoeing the feet of the poor and broken,
Coinage ripe as grapes plunking in his vest pocket.
-Dianna Henning
Published 2002 in: "88, A Journal of Contemporary American Poetry"
is where the cowboy gallops off,
a horse vanishing behind the brush.
The careless whirl of tiny particulars,
their rub against the northeasterly.
Born to get small. As though the foremost lesson
of life were don’t let too much pride
pump you. And even if you wanted to swell,
the scarecrow-years inform you
that when it all comes down
what keeps you and your bones together
is a faint suspicion
one cannot do without the other.
Skin stretches to take up the slack. You go where
the bones go. The horse goes on with or without you.