Friday 15 April 2022

Three Poems by Michael H. Brownstein

Where have the lightning bugs gone and a personal trainer is not an option


A muscle-bound sky

cloud shot, blood worn

and my friend with rabid eyes,

a slur of lips,

chews fresh sugar cane

with perfect teeth.

Some of the time he speaks for the two of us,

other times he is a very private man.

In the distance

the slow flex of a grand summer storm

winding towards us






Cloud light and a red algae sky.

the dawn of dusk.

Who am I to look out this window

Thick as the narrow width of a path by the door?

Make me safe.

Curdle me into your cottage cheese world,

heated bottled water warm,

wool stocking radiator heat warm.

Shadows do exactly what they are supposed to

as do suns, as does this curve,

just an ounce of smile, an inch

of weight, the musky odour after.





The light of wisdom, a pearl,

moonlight slipping onto a salt water pond, oysters

freeing themselves from stony homes

to float free within underwater winds

until they reach the surface to swallow the moon.


There are seams within a clasp of shell,

burrs and pebbles, unjust injury,

and the burn of moonlight swallowed whole

until they, like me, envelope every internal wound

imagined or real into the bright lustre of moons.

Michael H. Brownstein's latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love (2019) were both published by Cholla Needles Press.



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