Three Poems
Robin at Fifteen
|
His father's father
Found me in rubble:
Perfect ornament
For a gentleman's
Staid, genteel parlor.
Today he used
His dad's picture phone,
Sent a shot of us
To his new girl friend.
My snake-haired head
Behind his shoulder
Meant to impress her
With old family wealth.
She would have been stone,
If I had my way:
I was his first love.
He fed me ice cream
On his third birthday.
Its sweet chocolate
Stained my marble
Indelibly, like blood.
|
Published in Medusa,
editor Steve Sneyd, 2004, Hilltop Press.
The Sunday Page
Ship savaged by iron-hungry vines
That seized us when we landed,
We flee through violet grasses
That lash our boots and claw our legs.
A weird cry rends the icy air.
Weapons charged, we spin about,
Ready for action against new peril,
But see nothing in the shadows
Cast by the two swift-moving moons.
The doctor: “We can’t keep this up.”
“Find shelter,” commands the captain.
Pointing toward the horizon,
“Look! A tower!” cries a gunner.
We race for it, only to find
Neatly lettered at its foot:
TO BE CONTINUED...
|
Published in Maelstrom,
issue number eight, 1998.
Witchcraft
Hers were the small magics:
To keep an ice cream cone cold
On one hundred-degree days,
And soothe the sting of bees.
Still, offended, she knew what to do,
Used pins, and wax, and toenail clippings...
But when, at last, he died,
She was left wondering
If it wasn’t old age
That did the bastard in.
|
Published in Asimov's,
December 1997.
|
