FROM THE RIVERBED

1. The Girl Who Loved a Crawdad

I was a voyeur in an underworld tableau filled
with bursting pods and slimy frogs. Algae-green stones
smelled of heat and lichen-covered rocks, the best
spot for gape-mouthed turtles intent on spewing
eggs. Polliwogs were knights in training,
the crawfish closest to my ankles had fallen in love
with my shadowy beauty. The sun was a velvet cape
around my shoulders, the trees an emerald tiara.

A man’s fingers were never as noble as he plaited
my hair into three tributaries of a river to dwell in.
Claws gripped the back of my neck. I lay on my belly
at the surface trying to sniff the musk of him. Moon-teeth
bit my shoulder and I swallowed the spray of effervescent
stars. Pincers open, he vowed to defend my good name.

2. The Crawdad That Loved a Girl

I knew she was different from the others.
Their bony toes seemed to strike sparks against
the stones in my Eden. Weedy nosed boys
tried to smash me. It’s not easy getting a river bed
just right. Her feet are dainty and graceful and when
she loses her composure and slips into the sucking
mud that the deeper waters produce, I become bold.

I squeeze out of my hiding place to admire her pearl
like nails. They surface like a trapped water lily
as churned rubble clears. Let the frogs do their worst.
Let them drown me with the Romantics. I shall covet
her beauty long after heart-shaped leaves fall and block
the water. I shall nudge against her until my scrambling
body dies for lack of sampling her swift, exotic toes.

Laurie Byro

RUSSELL IN NEON

Remember when neon lights first stirred your night, buzzing that soft buzzing

sound, only heard on quiet, soft pale summer evenings? Neon came in primary

colors, advertising green things like Holiday Inn or Blue Ribbon beer, Milwaukee’s Finest Since 1896

I fell in love with neon signs on two-lane highways; bungalow motels & road side taverns were all the rage. Billboards were there, sure, but remember when you first saw neon?

Yellow, tangerine, cherry red: any color was possible. Mother with Mark on her lap, small head like a bobber on her shoulder. Book end sleeping sisters, and my dad’s young father face becoming different colors of neon

as our ’56 Chevy streaked through the night. There might be baseball on the radio, but mostly static played against my ears

And those neon lights. Man, every street, every intersection was Broadway

and all around me were spectrums of colored stars

Tim J. Brennan (68degrees)

THE ESQUIRE LOUNGE

I sighed because I could,
spring responded in kind
an indelible, gentle consolation
of things the way they are.
I cracked a peanut silently
speaking sweet nothings

my friend Keri once worked at
the place next door, an antique
watch boutique, “Robert’s fine
Jewelry.” she always told me
that the men there consorting
with the Watchmaker were bold
and unapologetic perverts. I
don’t know that she herself
knew the guy; on occasions
we would relay a promotional frisbee
of His design, but that’s all that I
ever knew of Him, and
that suited me just fine

sipping each on our species
of mead we contemplated
their origins—Belgium, Oregon,
pearly foam lounging nude
on the pint, losing footing
ever so precisely and smooth.
we took note of passers by
and casually began to muse

“You know flocks migrate—”
“mmm hmm”
“yup. a quickening within each breast
to guide them to recognition
 of truth as real as...”
“watchmakers?” I asked
“no, silly. angels.”
“ha,” I said,
“I guess.”

Sam Packard (ilalex)

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