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DRY SEASON
by Carol Matos I. I am a wading bird, youth without life, dying out. He leads me alongside deep swamps. Sudden swerves, small guardrails. Ancient alligators come upon us, a little too far. He rushes to the other side. I notice his face, his confession of panic. I slash through tangled roots. II. The daughter's distant gaze provokes her father's fury. She runs. He chases her through the house, pulls her underwear down. She moves quickly to escape his hard hand on her back. He hits her face instead. Her lip bleeds. Paled by his act, the father turns away from the daughter. Fearful of her terrible victory, she imagines tomorrow. III. So many cloud-to-ground lightning strikes, I’ve learned to grow in burnt grass. Now, I am the daring, never knowing when. I float alone through mangrove creeks. Over me, a blazing sky. Under me, porous limestone stores grassy waters until the dry season. |
Summer Landscape by Ira Joel Haber |
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by Simon Perchik Her loom as if some wounds can never close, are dragged and the lamb —how soft death is how white! all at once it covers the sky fills with this vague tearing apart —documents, pages, rags and she is combing out the lamb from its fountain and torn again —her fingers can't close, pulled down by a waterfall :each strand the mark on its throat —the lamb put back together :her child —over and over she rocks some crib as if its blanket could break apart and a little further off the sun keep warm, nursed on the tiny stream held in her arms —she sings to it wringing it —inside, slowly more tears and the years ahead. |
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