Poetry By
Rose Mary Boehm
Published on: 11/22/2013
Same as last year please
Bring on the old routine. My tea at eight-thirty, lunch by two. No new lovers—or old ones. Spare me the vicar's invitation. I don't want surprises. Protect me from the new crop of serious young intellectuals. Don't corner me in order to explain the subscript of Kubrick's 2001. Everyone's opinions are formed by everyone's opinions and I finally want to misbehave by thinking out loud for myself.
Published on: 11/20/2013
Amazonia
When the dog's front half disappeared under a heap of soggy leaves, I kicked away that mix of rotting vegetable matter and saw it. Man, I smelled it. It made curious humming noises and something like the sound bubbles make when they burst. Decomposition, they call it. When the dog had calmed, we just stood there under the giant ferns. From the nearest kapok hung a termite nest like a tumorous growth as large as a backpack. Flesh had again become part of the earth. No CSI in Amazonia, no cell phone connection, no 911. Man or beast, who cares. Just matter to be reabsorbed.
Published on: 11/17/2013
Crash
I Turning over and over. Didn't see the black ice, wasn't taught about tailspin. II He can't iron a shirt. The cats will go hungry. Hope I turned off the gas. Left the front door unlocked. The dog will eat the leftover turkey. The goldfish froze in the pond. If I live I don't have a nightie for the hospital. Hope my children forgive me for dying on Christmas Day. III It's over. I can get out. Can walk. Walk away. Dean Martin's voice follows me from the wreck.
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