A Child in the Gardenby Cheryl Chambers |
|
The garden spreads a fire of green and at its end she stumbles upon a sizzling sunflower, its flower fiery, its seeds and fruits a burnt brown.
She turns back toward green stalks, sepals, stamens, lowers her head to avoid the flower’s gaze towering overhead.
She evades the heavy sticks of sun burning a halo atop her head by envisioning a round oval, a praying turtle in a goldfish bowl.
Collecting spit beneath her tongue until a salty warm drink emerges, she coughs on the air trapped in her body’s long pipes as it dribbles down.
With a sideways glance, drinking in blue, she imagines white, touching fingertips to the tops of petals, gliding palms over the tickle of pistils.
|
|
Stillby Christina Wos Donnelly |
|
Sometimes in the late, the dark, the challenge is still to slip through no matter what the size of the locks—seductive draw, near-lethal undertow, still endangered.
Couchmate from the Gospel of Jung, spent, supine we lie sometimes in the late, the dark thousand miles apart, still drawn and quartered, still challenged.
|
|
The Post-Modern Shamanby S. M. Hutton |
|
conjures. (A ride to the give and take creak of saddle leather.) Hooves step carefully over a place in an eerie primordial mud where a very strange anemic plant branches under the thick thatch of last season’s grasses. A hoof sucks at the same mud the odd plant roots in.
This is no crossword puzzle, there’s no way to make it come out neatly.
Grasping at spring gnats, there are two suns in the plant’s heaven.
|