Poetry

Cairn by Dark by Cairn

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Read the conversation the stones have to make the wall. Read their will. How the low passage humbles you warns you what you must give up to enter here: when you crawl, it’s your first–born child; when you stoop, it’s the best year of your life; when your bones crack hard enough to make you hiss against the walls and roof, it’s a painless death among those you love. Still, you enter, though the passage bends and breaks you, knowing inside you can rise to your full height giant now, Long Lankin, Longshanks, lucky you, blood beating behind your eyes. What can you see? The generations here gone while your pulse still beats? What is this mud you stand in as you read the...

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Baba Yaga Tries to Donate Money

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Showed up at a gala with a pocketbook of bones, with a checkbook of birch bark. No valet parking for my mortar and pestle? No, my dress of twigs is VERY MUCH black tie! What do you mean, too old for your fucking gala? So that did not go well. Though ash and soot make excellent skin poultice. Please don’t mention the flash flood and the decorative explosion unless you insist. At a gallery opening. My dress of twigs is considered avant–garde! But what did you say about the skull necklace? “Goth is so last year” — how OLD are you, again, delicious child? Did not need much roasting. Those of you who think grandma is only joking are probably onto something. Your non–profit...

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The First Stone

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

i) We are closer to the animal than we think. Birds peck at their food. Chicks are fed, beak to beak. ii) We open our mouths for the stream of data gathered by the machine. Chew time is time wasted. iii) The gag reflex becomes a vestigial process. We are adapted to swallowing in one go. iv) The machine rounds us up in a circle. It shares the story of a dark–skinned woman winning the crown, most beautiful in the world. Her image peppers the stream. v) Somehow it is wrong to be beautiful and dark at the same time. vi) Someone throws the first stone. vii) The queen smiles through broken teeth and bruises. Her crown remains clipped to her hair. viii) Only the machine...

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Sentience is watching a sunset

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

New land. Fertile. Free. And barren. Barren except tree, vine and the Chinchanu: The silly cat–like critters with beastly claws. Barren except for the shuttle’s scorch marks branding fresh blue grass that The Chinchanu eat. Barren except for the settlers’ tents standing like termite hills between the trees that the Chinchanu climb. They line up with beastly claws facing the setting sun. How quaint says the man with big yellow bulldozer and new shiny gun. Melanie Rees is an environmental consultant whose work involves playing with soil and plants and animals. When she isn’t gallivanting in the mud or stuck up a tree she writes speculative fiction and poetry. Her work has...

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Harry of Five Points

by on Jun 3, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Act I, Scene 2 of Harry of Five Points, in which is explained the Salic Law: So let me put it thusly, boss, and youse Who is the molls and goons and likewise guys To him who is your leader. You got nix To keep you outta French guys’ speaks and joints, But some bull from this mouthpiece Pharamond, “In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant,” “No doll can get the goods in Salic land,” Which neighborhood those Frogs make like what is The French North Side, which this guy Pharamond, Pulled out of his own keister, so to speak. Yet judges bought with their own moolah say This Salic property is German, like Up in Detroit and on the Pittsburgh side, Where Big Chuck having whacked...

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Brighid

by on Jun 3, 2014 in Poetry | 1 comment

Six years old, youngest of the demon’s servants, didn’t cry when the king roused her after the demon’s death; nor when, an hour later, she remembered the cut-off scorched scream her dad gave, aflame; nor when, towards evening, a fishmonger recognized her and offered to see her back to her aunt; nor when, weeks later, the fishmonger delivered her to her aunt, who hugged her — and hugged the fishmonger — and wept.   That night the farm tomcat, a gray and surly mouser not inclined to affection, laid down on Brighid’s blanket and matter-of-factly licked her arm, her bare shoulder, her face, his rough tongue rasping her skin, and she cried, thinking not of her dad, or...

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