A Boy Named John
Ronald Reuel
Be not a
homunculus, a clay
anchored in
cumulus, with lungs
gasping for that
spoor fledged and flown,
a smithy of
hammers in your head;
be a warrior
writer laurelled with rumour,
the meander bling
of molten matter
that flames the
winters' humble fires;
inhale the saga
universe,
be no longer numb,
breathe the vastness
inside, splash a
host of heroes,
plunder that runic
hoard; the gold belongs
to you, a
smörgåsbord of myth.
Alraune
She heard his
scream
beneath her pillow.
A quarrelsome
night
had torn her
ribbon
of faith, foxed
her head
with hoofed
dancers.
He exists. Earth
beneath his nails
oozed as dark as
ink.
She had dug up
a mandrake root.
She buries the
leftovers,
some bones,
daubed over stains
on wattle walls,
that alphabet
of mandrake rage.
She feeds the root
with what is
needed,
sleeps him
in her husband's
grave. She will be
with child.
Silver Bullet
His face had
wintered hard, his eyes were shut,
his life a fable
in woods. I clenched a claw
and felt him
flinch at human touch. No chat
from me could
comfort him. We knew his lore.
He did not whine.
He could not howl. My rite
to give this
warmth, my right was humankind.
The law's to kill
a killing beast. I told our fate,
he was no longer
tribe, no longer kin.
Phil Wood was born in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting, bird watching, and chess. His writing can be found in various places, including recently : London Grip, Noon Journal of the Short Poem, and a featured collaboration with photographer John Winder at Abergavenny Small Press.
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