Yawn
So they had another party.
Too high, too drunk, too wasted, they didn't notice
when half their guests and a major piece of their huge
garden disappeared, pulled into the ink-dark waters
by an enormous, merciless hand.
They laughed when the swimming pool followed.
But suddenly they woke and looked at each other's distorted faces
in horror, then drifted off
with the competing currents.
There was no-one to look for their bloated bodies,
because there was no-one left to care.
And the sharks inherited the waters.
Somewhere in Peru
Five babies to feed. Thank God
for the sugar, your man says, and lifts
his machete. Up. Down.
The swing sure and practiced.
Your eldest sells cane hearts
to passing tourists.
Un Sol for a packet of ten.
Si, señora, thirty cents.
Little one tied to your back,
you bend over the cotton shrubs.
But tonight you dance, Nayaraq,
bob and wheel on calloused feet.
Your body your voice, revealing
what moves you. Hardened hands
clap, goading you into forgetting.
The Dangers You See Everywhere
The snake bite. Your eldest is getting thinner and thinner,
her eyes shinier, her pupils larger, her voice shriller.
Your youngest skydiving again, he wants to join the army;
your husband coming home later and later every night.
There is poison ivy and the dog next door, the thunderstorm
getting closer, the hurricane warning on the weather channel.
You already think you hear the water gurgling up through
creaking floorboards, you imagine your house being devoured
by floodwaters. Now and then your heart seems to miss
a beat, and your brother wrote of cancer and destruction.
The world is very sick, and you just know that one day
they’ll have to cut off your breasts, take out your spleen,
transplant your lungs, heart, and kidneys and—best of all—
remove your brain.
The end.
The Places, Sounds, Smells I Find When Travelling Back in Time
Oui, Madame.
Prosit!
Balaak!
Dobro.
S̄wạs̄dī
So sorry, love.
The friends I made,
the wonders I lived,
the food I ate…
from the steamy aroma of couscous
to the sill I bought at Helsinki’s fish market,
from the nutty garlic scent of the ćevapčići
to the roundness of Lhardy’s consomé de cocido,
from reindeer sleighs
to the ‘blue men’ of the Sahara,
from leprechauns and faery
to the Royal Barges’ procession
down Bangkok’s ‘River of Kings’,
when we, Thais and farangs alike
who’d come to stare, were the object of
King Bhumibol’s camera’s flash.
Now I am but an air plant
who needs no roots.
And, wherever I travel,
I always take myself.
The Joining
Let this be the place where love takes root,
where time slows to the rhythm of seasons,
where hands, folded in promise,
unfold into years of steady tending.
Here, in the hush between breaths,
where morning light finds the fields fallow,
you will build a life as the earth builds forests—
patiently, quietly, without haste.
The rain will come, the winds will shift,
there will be frost, there will be bloom,
and through it all, your hearts will turn
like sunflowers, toward each other.
May your days be the work of gladness,
your evenings the hush of peace,
and your love, like good soil,
deep enough to hold the roots of forever.
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels, short stories, as well as eight poetry collections and one chapbook. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a ‘Pushcart’ and a ‘Best of Net’ nominee. All her recent books are available on Amazon. The new chapbook, ‘The Matter of Words’, has been published last week, a new full-length collection is in the works. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment