BISCUITS
I never knew where to find you
I
never knew if you cared
I
looked in the basement
I
looked under the stairs
what
I found was nothing
but
biscuits, burned hard
as
river rocks in the sun
good
luck if you try to eat one
your
touch is a ride in a stolen car
your
kiss as shocking as an empty grave
your
heart stings like frozen biscuits
blood
runs cold through a deep, dark cave
you
go down like a vodka martini
on
lips crisp and cold and dry
never
sure whether to risk it
each
nibble of you like a biscuit
just
a taste is all I dare try
in
the end I will regret
the
things I did and those I did not
in
morning’s light you crumble
in my fingers like a biscuit piping hot
GUNPOWDER FLASH
My
uncle kept an iron
box
in the attic
Inside,
the fractured skull
of
an Indian brave
old
warriors buried rocks
atop
the body
it
kept out the wild animals
but
not the civilized ones
In
a gunpowder flash of progress
dust
on the silver window pane
we
see more clearly looking through backwards glass
wind
peppers your teeth with lies
log
walls painted with fire
beautiful
golden winter
burning cold in the hearts of men.
A BALLROOM OF TEMPESTS
derelicts
with claw hammer hands
losing
sleep over slain angels
only
two reasons to touch a fallen son
praise
him, bring the light to light
or
lay on hands of lies and deceit
build
fires of fury to deny the night
Steve Sibra - writes poetry and short fiction from his home in Seattle, Washington. His work has recently appeared in, or is forthcoming from, Whisky Blot, Third Wednesday, and Bear Paw Arts Journal. He is currently at work on his second book of poetry, as well as a hybrid compilation of short stories and poems about his life growing up in a tiny town in Montana.
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