Poetry By
Samara Golabuk
Published on: 6/29/2010
The Secret to Befriending Men
Singsong softly, moving slowly, downturned eyes a comfort; Only the guileless lure -- a whispering croon unmasked in purpose -- will call him to you. And when he shows himself, don't hold him, but welcome him, loosely -- he'll come at first by starts to the acorn meat crumbling golden in your marble palm, the cutting shell all gone. Be true and gentlepatient -- for now he's downwind, watching. You can't smell him, but he's close.
Published on: 3/8/2010
The Babel Tree
A grisled tree sits on the spot you were once, a requiem in the choreography of its limbs. Leaves like questions lift and pluck at the sky. I whistle -- the dog comes, loping out of the long grass, brown like a gnome and suddenly I am a sprite of the wood, still and small against the forest of this tombstone oak, and every runnel in the bark spells a message in some glyphic language I never learned but half-remember. And I wonder, if I whistle for you, will you awaken and come loping out of the long grass, too, no beckoned dog, but a homeward, homesick man with verbless heart and fairy-ring eyes?
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