Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Louis Simpson:
Termites
There are termites
In my head burrowing
Deeper and burrowing down.
Down into my throat,
Through my bones to claim
Their home in my ribs.
Roach
They saw me on the ceiling,
My pear shaped head wavering
Left and right and left again,
Unicorn horns polarized but
Cooperating: feedback loops.
My neck is accessed with the
Weight of my crystalloid thorax.
I like the red and blue
Stones separated.
I release my exhausted grip,
Aluminum wings catch me,
And I return home.
Etteilla
Running her hands around the orb,
Her lungs fill with information. The
Large “E” stenciled on her door captures
The sunlight behind her. The sphere is dull so
She moves to a tattered box that doesn’t
quite close snugly. Shuffling my future she flips
One then two then three; her expression unchanging.
One is wealth and two is carnage and three is silence.
I have learned nothing. I have learned everything.
Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Sylvia Plath:
She’s
Hollyhock, ambitious, impatient and
Ever moving, honorable gladiolus.
Sweetpea in the garden. Baby’s breath
And white carnations. Sweet and lovely,
Dependable ivy, enduring. Azalea and
Womanhood, taking care of everyone.
Pink carnations and Canterbury bells,
A loving mother, underappreciated.
O, o, oats, olive, and oxeye daisies.
Patience and peace, love that bloomed
In adversity, the sweetest,
Most harmonious of all. Like delphinium,
Light and airy and ardently attached.
Jasmine and arborvitae, unconditional,
Everlasting, eternal. Sunflowers – loyalty,
Longevity. Adored, adored, adored.
Yellow roses, friendship, apology,
Intense, undying love. Eternally blooming.
Buoys
She’s become disillusioned.
All around
Her are people that look just alike,
Speak just alike, walk just alike.
But their serpent tongues
Whisper lies;
Neither she nor her loves are of interest.
They do not get on,
Except for two.
She is alone in the crowd,
Accompanied only by two buoys
Bobbing alongside like loyal pups.
These people do not relish the art of making.
They do not bolster each other –
They tear her down, brick by brick,
They crumble her will, word by word.
Except for two.
Except for two.
The Applicant
Would you like to apply?
That’s just fine,
Please tell us your make, model number,
And year. Oh, and please provide
The feather of a rare bird.
We don’t know what qualifies as a rare bird.
Why do you ask?
Our dream applicant looks nothing like you,
But here’s a pen. It will reduce you
Into inky symbols on a dead tree.
You’re made of steel?
Why didn’t you say so? That won’t do.
We need malleable clay, so we can
Bend you and blend you however we want.
Mold you into our own.
Ah, I see now, you’re not really steel.
You are clay, clay with a stolen steel
Identity. Soft, wet, and soggy clay.
You’re not even the pretty red clay,
Just the drab, beige stuff.
You coat hands and crack under pressure.
Maybe you’ll do. We’ll put you
In the kiln and let your flaws bloom.
You’ll break, or you won’t.
Would you like to apply?
You say you brought flowers?
This is a utilitarian workplace,
We have no use for such frivolities.
We need a different green.
Would you like to apply?
We’ll hire you, but only as a prototype.
We’ll bring you in and stomp you
Flat, ready to begin again, to be
Re-molded. Although honestly, you just
Don’t seem to have enough substance.
There’s never really enough clay
To create the perfect and exact
Model we’re searching for.
Perhaps you’ll do, though.
Would you like to apply?
(Read) Between the Vines 