| InterBoard Poetry Competition | |
DARK ROSES ON THE CUSP OF DECEMBER THE CORONER PRONOUNCES
Jenni Russell
(MiPo)
Monday afternoon Randy sends roses,
burgundy buttons posed coquettishly in a glass vase,
crossing their long stems in a pool.
The dressing room is stale with beer bottles,
weekend-beaten G-strings, half-smoked joints
and these lovely roses like bloody tears.
My palms sweat.
The strobe throws yellow halos on the wall.
Below the stairs the trebles of men peak a cheer.
In the VIP loft, a new girl brushes
a silver-haired man’s hand
away from her nipple.
Her silhouette is luminescent.
The roses are reflected in the mirror
behind her as she dances.
Inside that mirror I sit beside the roses.
She sways between me and the roses.
Inside the mirror, she pushes his hand away from them.
Fingertips caress roses within roses within roses,
our worlds touch and touch and touch.
She and I--infinite bodies--silent echoes.
Twenty dollars to be swept into this fantasy,
made unaware that below the rail
another girl dances the same slow motions,
the waitress drops off a tray of shots,
the manager nurses his Curacao,
and the doctor who drank too many scotches
waits by the exit for his taxi.
The silver man reaches for the roses again,
squeezes the tips;
they pinch into a new soft form.
He’s buying her image to alter later,
memorizing the aroma of her coconut lotion,
her shoulder’s salty aftertaste.
There may be minutes in his mind
when he’s allowed to slip a finger
into her thong, feel the smooth slit get wet,
suck her neck--a rerun played over and over--
Love is a three minute song.
Romance grinds on anonymous laps.
In ten years, the hands that grab,
tuck her into their pocketfuls of fantasy
will be like so many assumptions
that are uncomfortably easy to feel and forget,
colorless, odorless, tasteless as air
and flowers will trouble her.
Trace Estes
(The Rabbit Hole)
I
The sun slinks into its place:
an errant teenager who’d partied all night
sneaking up a trellis to his room
to remain for the rest of the day,
dimly present, offering no illumination
on where he has been.
II
The morning’s dampness is a whetstone
that sharpens blades of memory and need.
Old bones and breaks begin their barometric chores--
dowse the day’s outcome
by the amount of pain felt.
Maroon milo tops perform Klaxon duty--
warning of an inevitable hard freeze.
Small animals leave trails through rimed grass,
eyes constantly to the sky.
III
Thousands of starlings serve as nature’s screensaver--
an undulation above freshly reaped fields.
Hundreds spiral down in a tornado of wings
seeking grain remainders
as a harvest of opportunity.
As the multitudes mill around the stubble,
increasing brethren leave the aerial amoeba
to join the earth-bound congregation.
When some unknown number is reached--
an avian flash point--
the birds burst skyward, twist
the entire mass a few yards away and repeat
their geometry until the ground is barren.
Lisa Prince
(BlueLine Poetry Forum)
a cardboard box
curbs are six inches
high when you account for heels
lifts and the wash of leaves
after a rainstorm
cereal comes in two sizes
of boxes
swaddling clothes
the average rainfall in december
is three inches
not accounting for snow
straw and other detritus
fast food packaging
accounts for two-thirds of all paper
garbage
discounting newspaper
the enquirer is not
rachel
in the womb
babies drink amniotic fluid
distinguish dark from light
hear voices
feel pain
tiny fingers have prints
like the fall of ash
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