September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for Andrea Van der Veer)[/i]
Do I smell cake? Or hake? Or steak?
Or mayhap a pate?
Goat cheese? A squeeze of Brie,
If you please? A spinach souffle?
A snack, a nip
A gourmet-loving sip of steamed cafeu lait?
Andrea keeps me fed and sleeps me in her bed
And bathes me when I shed
And runs me ’til I’m dead
(She’s kind of odd that way).
There’s people-food to eat and every kind of treat,
Imported tins of meat, nonpareils for sweet.
She gives me cats to harry
And I hope she does not marry
And have a mess of kids
Or I’m out on the skids.
But if things will only stay
The way they are today,
I know that every day
Will be a birthday.
September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for Michael Koop)[/i]
Grandma died suddenly and crushed us kids,
Who were unprepared for
The staggering loss
That old people and families manage so well.
The Family stumbled.
Things were said
That echo faintly,
Even now.
But Family is family,
Which is why
Grandma is a sweet memory,
Not a bitter one.
It seems to me that your Family did it right,
Gathering,
And your tears seem
Much of denouement,
Less of loss.
Family is family, and your loss is
Near to mine.
So I didn’t go.
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
the poem is
just beneath the
skin
the skin is pale and
easily opened
what happens though
is this
i find myself
out of words
out of breath on
the front steps with
the roses i bought
already fading
with apologies falling
dead
from my lips
and if i’m not a
person you could ever
love and if
you don’t have the strength
to hate me
then what?
we are all afraid in
the thin air
of passing days
held to the ground by
the sheer grey enormity
of the sky
by the lack of
possibility
one among us just
waiting for the
perfect moment to step
forward and be
crucified
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
and she is there
at the edge of the field
she is gathering flowers
and the sky
surrounds her
we are not lost
we are not forgotten
we are hopeful
and the book of days is empty
and in the town we left behind
the poets have all
been hung
this is the truth
everywhere
this is the sound of crows
after three months with
no rain and she
is there
she is gathering flowers
and they turn to dust in her
delicate hands and
the poem inside her heart was
never meant to be read
was never
meant to be written
and the dust falls through
her fingers with the slow
grace of angels
and we are far from home
but hopeful
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
but the horse is
crippled
the rider blind
the doors of the weak
are always waiting
to be kicked in and
i have been promised
rain for
three months now
i have watched
the rivers fade to
dust
i have watched the
hand that holds the flame
reach out to the burning boy
and the smell of his pain
was familiar
the sound of trains
unmistakable
and the screams of young girls
as the showers were
turned on
this is destruction
far beyond the feeble scope
of god
do you understand?
the mother is starving
and has nothing to eat but
her child
the child is sick
and will be dead before
the season of famine
is over
if the word you choose is
[i]mercy[/i]
there will be no one
with the courage to
listen
