Poetry By
Nancy A. Henry
Published on: 1/25/2011
Addiction
Fred's is bacon - off my plate, paw-swipe lightning. Wild Kingdom jaguar slinks to a corner, wolfing with a furtive growl. Now I find him licking the stove for any slick and salty bacon benediction that escaped the rag. So Fred, it's finally come to this? Sleek familiar, God knows I've had days I'd lick a hot stove for a taste.
Published on: 1/25/2011
Mount Mica
Sorting through the mine tailings on that sweltering July day, inflamed with rock-hound lust it was easy to miss the bend in the faint, stuttering trail. scrambling from one blazing hunk of quartz to the next, thrusting fist-sized crystal clusters into our garish nylon packs. My 70-year-old mother in her baby blue Keds trusted me. My gentle, middle-aged autistic neighbor, Jim, trusted me. I had the map, such as it was. The water held out for the couple of hours we'd planned for, that morning at the overflowing breakfast table, when hydration was the least of our concerns. When the slim jugs were empty, Jim retreated into Spock-like rationality, reciting facts relative to dehydration and uncertain rescue. Mom grabbed a tiny toad and cried "saved!" when the terrified creature sprayed hot pee into her palm. We laughed so hard we had to sit down on the blazing treasure-jumbled hillside, and before we stood again, we unloaded those packs lightening up for our unknown journey; we left our treasures there for someone else to find.
Published on: 1/25/2011
Jonah
So we decided to sell the motorcyle, the St. Bernard, the cockatoo, the green, yellow, and blue parrots, the sweet, rattly hazard of a Karmann Ghia, the absurdity of a living-room set we'd been talked into at the Fayetteville Furniture Mall; the one with a beer-holder in each armrest and the lighted curio hutch, where we displayed my fossilized mastodon clavicle (from my paleontologist phase) and your hand-blown bong-- except when one of our mothers was expected. We were running from the Almighty God-- two fellowships to seminary a compelling tailwind at our guilty backs. You jumped ship before long, some passing behemoth yawned you in and vomited you back safely home submitted to His will, I survived the shipwreck, the chastening nor'easter blew me here where I still cling, a stubborn barnacle on a wet, chill rock. I am not going back.
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