Swan Lake

 

Standing within this silence and dense fog,

I see nothing. Civilization is closed and time

is warped.

 

Water slides over rock like the hands of a

masseuse on my back. Foam curls and slaps

the sandy shores that hold the delicious

knowledge created through centuries of intimacy.

I turn and blush.

 

The silence sings in a pale-yellow pitch; fog fairies

capture me as they flirt in dance, tickle my

non-sense.

 

Marsh grass has fallen to the weight of lovers, and I

heed a call to make a bed with nature. In this place,

ghosts of fairies glide over you, and just when you close

your eyes, they dance Swan Lake on your belly.

 

Rural Pride

Every Thursday, the half-ton truck backs into

our muddy driveway, doors open like the

nostrils on our mare.

 

On cold white walls hang pork chops, sirloin

and roast – the meat that  sings, makes no

apology for the high-priced tags, dripping blood

while we lust, reach out but dare not touch.

 

“Stew meat and hamburger go a long way, wieners

are good with my baked beans,” she says. With not

much money, it’s another week we won’t go hungry.