Poetry By
K. Lou Combs
Published on: 9/26/2011
Truth or Dare
Here is something true: the sky changes color. the moon, daily, exchanges her mask swapping sliver of half curled cheese for a mirror framed by night. even the earth beneath you alters itself seasonally-cradles snow or grass or dead leaves or nothing, waiting for the next change. it may come in earthquakes, those sudden shifts, forging mountains and canyons from smooth rock or in the way tectonic plates drift over the planet's molten core in constant search of home. A dare next. jump into the sky and trust the changing colors will catch you. Here's the truth: that which lives seeks love. trees reach with roots and leaves to encompass earth, water, and sun for food, but also so they know they are not alone. a human being longs for it with every molecule, every strand of DNA splits apart and copies itself so it will be alive when you find love. every breath searches for it, waiting for the moment when the wind carries it to you. so seek love. everything changes. sperm strikes the egg, burrowing close for warmth, becoming one to create something new. a newborn horse wobbles on stick thin legs and its lungs expand in preparation for the first neigh. the lioness prowls and takes down a gazelle and its death feeds the pride- like when you die, your body will break down to enrich the soil, and give the grass a place to grow. meanwhile, the day trades itself with night above and over and part of you burning the colors of your universe into the horizon. be changed by the sunset. know everything changes and stays the same. rely on the horse to grow steadily strong the moon to keep her faces and the tree to reach through soil, looking for something other than itself in this wide wide world.
Published on: 9/26/2011
Filicide
The fly loves the human and so adopts itself into your household. You think it a nuisance, but all it wants is to touch the oil eked out of your skin. On the bend of your thumb it reads the minuscule lines hatched over your knuckle, tiny maps that you have not realized exist because the language you speak is of syllables and uncertainties rather than the chemical understanding of direction. So different from how the fly understands the world through its stick feet and thousand eyes, observing when you talk over it and not minding. In fact, it loves the human tongue, the sound of your voice resonating in your throat, a gentle rumble so similar to its mothers' buzzing wings when she lifted off her unborn eggs and their sucking maws, birthing one after the other without pause until she flew off, never to be seen again. Little orphan that it is, the fly learned to make its god of you. In you is the parent it never knew, the one who provides it food, who offers shelter from weather that would tear its wings apart and dusts away spiders' web so it can fly, unmolested. Even your swings it takes for a game of tag, never suspecting the moment it loses.
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