My Private Joke

There are sluggish termites now.
They gnaw on the gourds
of my grandmother’s hip.

And I bring moldy swamp flowers
my lover had to cut
because I couldn’t,

and we place them in a vase upon a clock.

Then we talk of politics,
the young and the afflicted
spanning time the eve of election.

Days later
there is not a president,
but an operation.

.The nation waits .

I smoke.

Outside Cancer’s bedroom,
my private little joke.

- bree


On Nervous Potato Bugs

I walk lightly
in this grass
for everywhere in it
life is opening.

To my left there are fallen
logs making out in the shadows,

and to my right something chattering,
all of its might for a song.

And I look for a tree
to piss by.

And I look to the sky,

behind red hand leaves,

over tall grass and the ritual waving,

and keep looking about me,

in this grass place
where everything's private.

When I finally piss
it is on clovers,
nervous potato bugs
trafficking through.

- bree








All poems copyright 2004 by the authors. Zine designed by Kathy Walker.