Breakdown Moon
Then the Moon's does too,
by Daniel David Moses
through the arms of some
So you say Goodbye
hickory tree. Why
to the Moon instead.
do you even try
That's easier done.
to hold on to them?
She loses her head
right on schedule.
By now you should know
how their faces go,
You know just when to
how the Moon renews,
expect the last bit
how soon your sister
of light going out
should manage Hello.
of her profile. You
know not to expect
expression there for
a little while. You
DARK PINES UNDER WATER
know how soon she'll set.
Gwendolyn MacEwen
But who could predict
From:
your sister doing
Toronto: Macmillan, 1972
this similar thing,
the bad news ringing
at midnight and you
ending up up and
talking to the Moon?
Grandmother, you say.
What can I do? What's
left of your daughter's
full face is falling
through my arms like snow.
The Shadow-Maker.
This land like a mirror turns you
inward
And you become a forest in a
furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach
downward,
You dream in the green of your
time,
Your memory is a row of sinking
pines.
Explorer, you tell yourself, this is
not what you came for
Trees
Although it is good here, and
by Dave Margoshes
green;
would you believe me
You had meant to move with a
if i told you trees
kind of largeness,
were the lords of the earth,
You had planned a heavy grace, an
that poplars not men
anguished dream.
were created in god's image,
that oaks were princes
But the dark pines of your mind dip
waiting for kisses
deeper
to be born again—
And you are sinking, sinking,
sleeper
would you believe me
In an elementary world;
if i told you all this
There is something down there and
while peeling the stem
you want it told.
from a leaf, dissecting
the delicate veins
through which air is made,
chipping away at hardwood hearts
where ring after ring
leave their mark, telling all—
this is the terrible truth
revealed at last:
we, dumb brutes,
are shadows, straw men
destined for duty
beyond our ken,
damned to lower reaches,
our puny arms lost
beneath prayer piercing sky.
By J. Milburn
Unable to Sway You, Father
Happy birthday to you.
by Bernice Lever
Today you are 45 and
Pounding my fists
today I will mummify you.
on your fat chest
Dr. Death is whispering
the hollow rhythmic
thump
into your plastic ears.
of my anger erupting from the
It’s time
empty
for the big black toy box in the
surprise of your mouth,
sky.
Judgement day for all bogus dolls
you, not even rocking
and wasp-waisted mannikins of
back on your work boot heels,
vinyl perfection.
your very body a fortress
It’s payback time
mocking my outburst
for all the anorexic children
the silicon nightmares
my sixteen year old anger
the liposuctioned cellulite
just a fourth daughter's frustrations
the carved up bellies
neither my flailing poems
the bulimic binges
nor drumming knuckles
the Botox death masks.
made any sense to you
who could not know my
outrage
It’s time
you took the rap
with these siblings
for making Ken an accessory
narrow as the wooden slats
and for denying him
that half-blocked the hot air vents,
real hair.
in that mountain house
So here’s one finger for you
you so carefully built,
and all the other ageless clones in
a home we so recklessly split,
plastic land
easily as kindling.
Happy Barfday
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BARBIE
Fairy Tales
Barbie
by Kenneth Sherman
begins defending those rusted
The fairy tales have no simple
chains
endings.
of fear. Nor is there a hunter near
Hansel and Gretel do not go home.
with glimmering axe, waiting for
And that spidery wart of a witch,
your sobs, waiting to rush in and
that black-laced bitch who waits
split the hag's dry pod of a head.
in the woods of sly-eyed rodents
and owls who rotate their
Stealth, my dearest; childhood is
conspiring heads,
over.
has a thousand and one sugared
Put away your green balloon and
plans
slam
to keep you here and in pain.
the oven door. The smell of her
sizzling
In the stinking saw-toothed
flesh is not so bad as you
dungeon
imagined.
of her face your gingerbread
Later, in the blue bruise of forest
dreams
you will leave your sister,
dissolve. The family members will
whisper your own name over and
cook
over.
one another alive (for love,
You will lie down and sleep
they say, for love). And the dove
beneath the clear and separate
who once returned you safe and
stars.
sound
is now a crow, sniggering
on the home's thatched eaves.
There is no reconciliation. The
longer
you stay the more sluggish your
feet
the heavier your lids and your brain
Night Images
By Mary Horner
Night.
Train shuffles along the rails
Clouds are orange
Trees grouped in threes threes
threes.
Black leaves rustle
like old pennies
Burned House
In the burned house I am eating
Lakeshore ripples
breakfast.
Moon a broken eggshell
You understand: there is no
on Inky water.
house, there is no breakfast,
Air warm like a bath
Your skin
Breaks.
Salt sweat
salt sweet
Footprints on damp grass
You imagine
yet here I am.
The spoon which was melted
scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.
silhouettes of chimneys
through open windows.
Where have they gone to,
A half-folded umbrella
brother and sister,
splayed ribs
mother and father? Off along
pale bones.
the shore,
Your hand sticky
perhaps. Their clothes are still on
with dew.
the hangers,
their dishes piled beside the
sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,
every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
Morning in the
The day is bright and songless,
alone and happy,
the lake is blue, the forest
watchful.
bare child's feet on the scorched
In the east a bank of cloud
floorboards
rises up silently like dark bread.
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin
I can see the swirls in the
green shorts
oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
and grubby yellow T-shirt
those flares where the sun hits
holding my cindery, non-
them.
existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.
I can't see my own arms and
legs
or know if this is a trap or
blessing,
finding myself back here, where
everything
in this house has long been
over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and
bowl,
including my own body,
including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table,
The Pig
by Roald Dahl
In England once there lived a
big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive
brain.
He worked out sums inside
his head,
There was no book he hadn't
read.
He knew what made an
airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked
and why.
He knew all this, but in the
end
One question drove him
round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all
about.
What was the reason for his
birth?
Why was he placed upon this
earth?
His giant brain went round
and round.
Alas, no answer could be
found.
Till suddenly one wondrous
night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet
dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got
the answer!"
"They want my bacon slice by
slice
"To sell at a tremendous
price!
"They want my tender juicy
chops
"To put in all the butcher's
shops!
"They want my pork to make
a roast
"And that's the part'll cost the
most!
"They want my sausages in
strings!
"They even want my
chitterlings!
"The butcher's shop! The
carving knife!
"That is the reason for my
life!"
Such thoughts as these are
not designed
To give a pig great piece of
mind.
Next morning, in comes
Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the
floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly
bit
So let's not make too much of
it,
Except that you must
understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer
Bland,
He ate him up from head to
toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and
slow.
It took an hour to reach the
feet,
Because there was so much to
eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of
course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his
brainy head
And with a little smile he
said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch
"That he might have me for
his lunch.
"And so, because I feared the
worst,
"I thought I'd better eat him
first."