Circling
If we were dogs, we’d sniff each other
warily,
fur bristling on our necks, low growls
emanating from restricted throats.
Instead,
we each take a long step back,
creating space and distance
between two bodies
who once knew each other well.
We’ve been here before,
you and I,
trading glances, each waiting
for the other to make a move.
It’s a macabre dance,
familiar, though neither of us
can remember the exact steps.
Too many years
have passed since we vowed
to love each other
till death do us part.
Too many promises lie broken
at our feet, like the china plates
we hurled against the wall.
Truth is, we were never good together,
you and I, as evident by the way
we now pass each other,
shoulders never touching.
Aunt Josephine
My aunt was a fearsome creature,
all stiff posture and inescapable grey bun.
Born in the wrong era, I suppose,
for she would’ve made a splendid Victorian.
As a child, I respected her in that way children
respected all adults with such chiseled features.
I admired her, too, the way she could sit
for an hour-long sermon without breaking a sweat.
We cousins would cast sidelong glances,
each in on the bet as to what auntie would do
should a fly buzz in through the open windows
and land on her steepled vein-mapped hands.
None ever did though; I suspect they dared not.
Because even the gumtrees held their sticky breath
until auntie rose like a pillar of fire for the final prayer.
Survival
Snake slithered through the grass;
you will survive, he hissed.
And the canyon walls repeated,
survive, survive, survive.
Donkey bared his brawny teeth;
you will survive, he brayed.
And the canyon walls repeated,
survive, survive, survive.
Water gushed over the cliff;
you will survive, it gurgled.
And the canyon walls repeated,
survive, survive, survive.
Pigeon flew, wings on wind;
you will survive, he peeped.
And the canyon walls repeated,
survive, survive, survive.
My heart nudged my ribs;
you will survive, it murmured.
And the canyon walls repeated,
survive, survive, survive.
Wayward Wind
I looked at your eyes,
clear for the first time in years,
lit from within—something called
hope.
A companion, a child, a house;
you were riding new currents,
stretching wings
that had forever failed to sustain
the younger you.
And I stood there on the cliff,
clapping,
screaming myself hoarse
in jubilation.
Then it happened—
straight from myth,
an Icarus too close to the sun,
you began falling,
spiraling toward
an opaque
opiate
sea.
I Was Sleeping When Spring Arrived
deep under my duvet,
snoring no doubt,
refusing to participate
in Winter’s weary games
of ice and wind and snow.
So, I never saw it coming—
buds, no bigger than buttons,
bursting from branches,
gangly green stems pushing
their way through stubborn soil,
the sweet unfolding of hyacinths,
daffodils & confetti-colored tulips.
Imagine my surprise when I awoke,
saw the sun creeping through the slats
of the blinds, heard a chorus of birdsong,
felt the shift of seasons in my brittle bones.
Oh, the delight when I threw open my window,
inhaled the glorious, petal-scented air and shouted,
It’s Spring.
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College and is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favourite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website and check out her new poetry magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/
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