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IN SUNSET WAYS
by Millard C. Davis I'd like to go out and climb the nearest live oak Along about evening to see if the incoming sunset Were being manufactured out there just for me (Except I know that you're there, too, along your road). I like to tell others who ought to have seen, But that's like making an image out of love And trying to pass it along. It does work with kids We like to believe, so maybe we should send it on Like getting them to swing from a spreading branch Of an apple tree like I used to do, sweeping out As far as you can 'til the ropes suddenly slacken — You're not pulling it out but suddenly dropping back. You don't want to tell them it's the same way with love, Or can be. First dates will inform them so soon enough. And then like sunsets they can climb a neighboring tree. Both were meant to be looked over and passed along For the warmth to be shared after nighttime has come. |
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ALTERNATE REALITY by Alex Nodopaka |
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THE FRUIT
by Tom Laichas The fruit needs no reptilian tongue to tempt the children. Stemwise, it slithers into their dreams. Taste me. Chew me. Swallow me up. Down their sleeping throats sluices milky sweet juice and pulp. The children awaken. They already know what it will mean to let this fruit into their mouths: labor and labor pains. Such suffering! But also sweetness. Now and then, such sweetness. They know what will come. Did you think they are stupid? Aren't they, both of them, prophets? From the garden's high place, looking over the hedge, they've seen cities and villages. They've seen their savage ungardened neighbors. But, when the breeze is just right, it carries from every house and hovel that sweet fruit's aroma. The fruit is the only way out. They eat. At the moment they swallow, the cosmos collapses down to the surface of their skins. They are one with no one else. The dream said nothing about such sudden loneliness. Terrified, wholly estranged from the world, they shiver in clear winter air. But the fruit keeps its promises, and its scent warms their bodies, its heat driving every slow thought from their brains. They burn together, the children, alone and together Then the Voice speaks. It is now a stranger's voice, grotesque and frightening. The Voice too keeps its promises. |
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INLAND
by Michael Fraley There is an ocean in my mind That curves each wave Towards the farthest shores of sight Where purple and crimson birds of flight Descend lazily through the stretching branches Of the drowsy auburn trees. Flight, you would say, is an ethereal thing, But I can feel its pulse and rhythm In the beating of my blood And the graceful arc of each bird Settling to the ground in that unseen land Leaves an afterimage of its flight Etched upon the eye. Lower down, Among the furtive roots that course Their random yet persistent way, Among the litter of the forest floor, Delicately hued flowers flaunt their petals In self-delight at the beauty they possess. |
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