Poetry By
Adam Burrell
Published on: 4/25/2011
End Game
A diplomacy of desire has laid tracks between my eyelids: infrastructure capable of shouldering this small army to the troubled hedges that gamble along my contested borders of sleep and logic. The attack is mounted down deep in my cerebral ridges. Courts tech- nically still hold sway over my advances, governing discretionary sexual impulses, balanced by a more flaccid judiciary. But emotional insurgents lock step with liberty song, coupling argument and forces older than any superimposed ego: itself mere camouflage to tyrannical ends, my body's terrain intrenched against it.
Published on: 4/25/2011
Cactus
My blooming cactus consumes each winter's strains of nocturne with curled projections toward spring. It's called a Christmas plant, but mine remains a bursting giant all year long, and sings away my fears through rings of petals. Death loses to pink. That's how my kitchen floor has called the game. In heaven's aftermath, the floorboard's shadows show an upset score. This morning, allusive sunbeams cross the sink's unfeeling tile, and rush into bristles on the sex displays my cactus flaunts and winks. As the light leaves, forgetting all its done, I praise the plant alone; and wonder how its darkened form will keep decay out now.
Published on: 4/25/2011
Good Luck Charm
Someone ran over this tiny frog with a car. A wet snap announced its skull fracture, then the full pressure of the wheel exacted a force capable of making flat a human hand. The frog's brain split open. Its body hugged concrete with a saran wrap cling. Cancer is an abstract subject, if you are not the one whose internal wheel is turning against her own body. The difference between dying and undying is passenger or pedestrian. And this, our human meaning, is a five fingered game of leap frog. She scrapes the frog's spine with her fingernail, looking sharp at the back of her hand, which she wishes she had known better: the small question of her particular tan. All this vanity is fragile. Touching the frog's flattened back, she comes to recognize, though not with ease, that some beings are made to move from world to world.
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