In the Arms of Morpheus

There was no choice
No that's a lie, she asked for it
The needle plunged deep.

A large black mouth opened.
She swayed over its moist tongue,
like a red carpet which curled
round her leading her to trial.

What have I done? I have only
tried to make you laugh, she said.

The Chief Justice pirouetted from the wings
wearing purple satin embroidered
with eyes and ears.

This is serious, he said,
there is no laughter here.
He handed her the writ with a flourish.
This is your sentence, he bellowed.
But your honor, I can't read your writing, she puled.

It says e n u i Do you know what that means?
he asked with a sneer.

O, God yes, and I'm so tired of it, she replied.
But sir, ennui is spelled with two n's: e n n u i.
Does this mean I will only be weary some
of the time?

With that, the judge turned away in disdain.
Holding his lace trimmed wrist, his hand
to his upturned nose, he sniffed the civet
from his pomander, as though he could cover
the stench of this century.

—by NITA DONOVAN

Summer Night

Green tea and melon slices
the house is quiet with heat


the roar of engines at the airport
the sound of trucks in the alley


a painting of a dark eye staring through a keyhole
she watches rain form puddles in the driveway


she waits for him on the front steps
his car is red with a white top


she runs across newly cut grass
he leans over and lets her in

—ANNETTE ROBINSON

 

A Bell Tolls for the Children of Beslan

it is the day of the bell
the day of knowledge
the day of the twelve hundred in Beslan

Julieta Gutieva
spilled petals from her deer eyes over students smiles
No one imagined
the red resonance of the whimpering from the gym
trespassing the fragile skin of sky

     The newcomers held their proper postures      gave flowers to the departing
sealed with their aroma the premonition of their death
All waiting for the picture     opened their eyes devouring memories for their grandchildren
untold memories like untouched virgins dying at the twilight of desire

    The children of Beslan sang the only possible song to be sang on September first
The melody that announced the New Year under the cross
The naive song of knowledge under the rotten rope
Open the doors of all colors
We greet pencils and pens     books and notebooks
We want the key to the land of knowledge

The sun was a blurry balloon
weary     scornful at 9:30 in the morning
Its fire burnt differently that day
like a needle through the eye of memory
over the innocent scalps of the sacrificed in Beslan
It slashed tender bones
flesh of children and mothers of school number one
No one imagined
no shadow will follow their steps into any destiny
Damned calves drowning in a puddle of blood
After Beslan    i breathe a thorny air that silently corrodes everyone that really knows
and sleeps etherized each night on its rough edges

     the children of Beslan     our children  stoned
by suicidal demons
innocent before perhaps
eyes massacred by corrupted fire

it is the day of the bell
the day of knowledge
the day of the twelve hundred in Beslan
the poignant strum runs through walls and forest
while the bells of knowledge shatter
smashing the hearts of the children of Beslan
they died smart
spelling horror and decadence
over the blackboard of our dreams

—by MAYTHÉ RUEDA

Playing with Love

We play to love and love to play
We avoid the sadness and try to be gay

You can save your love till your love is spent
You can forget your love wherever you went

Love for self but not too much
Love is useless if it doesn't touch

My love for you: it has to show
My love can stay or it can go

The love is yours and mine without mistakes
The love you give is the love you make

We avoid the sadness and try to be gay
We play to love and love to play

—by MICHAEL UHILA


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