The Vanishing Moon by Barbara Mulvey-Welsh

The Vanishing Moon

by

Barbara Mulvey-Welsh

Moon stands, hands on hips and head held high, astride the glittering evening sky

Shouting – cease your constant tugging – at the overbearing Earth;

Moon – my child, Earth replies – struggle not; I urge you look inside my tender heart

Do not mistake my embrace for restraint; I hold to you to keep you safe…

No! Moon shouts – as she pulls her hair – that cannot be

Your restraint is stifling; confining me

It’s killing me – Moon sags to her knees – nightly as I pull and tug

Ceaseless, trying to be free;

Moon – my child, Earth replies – you don’t understand the perils of the sky

Please! Moon shouts – as she stomps her feet – I understand that I must fly

Free and unfettered; I long to be me

Moon – my child, Earth replies – for you I shall grant your one demand

You may roam unfettered and free, when you finish your responsibilities

Speak! Moon shouts – as she cocks her head – I won’t be tricked or misled

Moon – my child, Earth replies – I have no tricks or treachery

At your wane, I will abide your wish to be unfettered; free to roam; free to fly

Heed my words – impetuous Moon – I demand of you a simple thing

What! Moon shouts – breathlessly, demandingly  – do you require of me

Moon – my child, Earth replies – you must be back again to rise

Why! Moon shouts – as she flops and pouts – you promised I could wander free

Moon – my child, Earth replies – free you shall be but not absolved

Of any and all responsibility

Bio: I started blogging as a hobby in November 2010. In January 2011, I joined Plymouth (MA) Patch as a paid columnist. In August 2014 I joined the Old Colony Memorial as a columnist and appear every other Wednesday in the print edition and on the wickedlocal.com websites. I try to write every day and have recently self-published a short-story and a book of poetry.

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I built you a jungle by Lo Poholek

I built you a jungle

by

Lo Poholek

I built you a jungle

We are sitting on the couch and the couch is pierced with metal. The couch is pierced with the metal of automobiles that I caught for you, like flies on the ceiling, but cars on the street. They are corpses now. They are corpses that I caught for you like flies on the ceiling. We are sitting on the couch and the couch is a car but not. We are not driving but we are sitting. On the metal couch. On industrialization.

We are in the jungle.
I built a jungle for you and we are in it.
Our jungle. We are in our jungle.

There is too much metal and it is metallic against your skin and you look silver and bronze and your body is bare but covered in the clothes I made for you out of ripped car seats that came from the car corpses that I tore apart and stretched apart and peeled apart. I curled their metal into the sky for you and I made us trees.

I made us trees from the metal of car corpses. They used to sway in the wind before they grew through the ceiling. I built a jungle. I stood in the middle of traffic and spread my arms end to end and they collapsed against each car body as it passed until I caught them, lifted my hands and caught them. Until I picked them up with my hands. With my jungle worn hands. With my calloused jungle worn hands. With my calloused jungle worn hands I caught these cars for you and before I brought them back to you, I threw them into the asphalt.

I pressed them into the asphalt and their trunks tore themselves open. Their trunks opened and I pushed them into the asphalt and the asphalt smelled like crying but it did not cry. I built you this jungle from car corpses and I pushed them into the tear hot asphalt and I ripped them open. I ripped their sides open with my teeth and I curled them up over their own bodies and I curled them around my forearms and then I pressed them into the sky.

They swayed with the wind and I stood in traffic with my arms wide and trucks and cars and vans drove past me. They curled around my toes and my feet and around my body and I curled their dead car corpses around my forearms and I curled them into the sky. They swayed and they swayed and they swayed with the wind.

I built you a jungle of car corpses and I pulled them from their ground from the tear hot asphalt and I uprooted them and I made you a bouquet of metal, but it was small in my hands. I pulled these giants from the earth and they were small in my hands, so I pressed them together and their metal melted into each other and the red and the green and the white and the black and the corpses they blended together in a bouquet that I gave to you and you planted them in the living room floor.

They ripped through the wood and you planted them in the living room floor and they ripped through the wood and they tore through the floor and their metal roots grew into the ground and the trees they grew through the wood.

You planted them and they cut your hands and they cut your hands and they cut your hands with car.

You were cut by industrialization and you bled into my palms and you put your palms onto my legs onto my thighs and you sat on your knees between my knees and you put your palms onto my thighs, with their car cuts and their tear hot asphalt and you put your blood onto my thigh and you looked up at me and there were tears in your eyes and you looked up at me and there was hot blood on my thighs and you looked up at me and your tears fell onto my hot thighs and your hot blood dripped between my thighs and you looked at me and there was metal pierced into your stomach.

There was car metal pierced into your stomach and it was pierced through your stomach and you looked at me with the hot blood on your hands and the hot blood spreading across your shirt and the hot tears on your cheeks and you looked at me and there was a jungle behind you.

I built you a jungle and it pierced through your body when it grew when you planted it into the wood. I built you a jungle and now it is in your body and now the blood is leaving your body and running down my legs and I am looking down at the hot tears on your cheeks and you are leaving me with your hot blood hot blood hot blood hot blood.

I built a jungle for you.

Bio: Lo Poholek lives in Tallahassee, Florida. She can be found on twitter @lopoholek.

Follow Up

Follow Up

by

Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

And so, ‘been done’ took the drink from the bar which made a follow up to what hadn’t yet occurred rather difficult. One hand on the glass, one on the wood, those words were there, printed to be seen for any observing – of which many were who would want to approach to get something going.

Coming close to closings, endings are more than apparent. Ended. But, the question of continuation continues. What brought on the end also goes on. Been Done’s been done being addicted to discussion. Nothing else to say. All’s been lost in what one once was hooked on.

In the flesh, there’s nothing else to pick up on but words run across a forearm lifting for another sip as the other arm lets go of old habits.

On the tongue of another is the same or close enough drink and hopes for openings although nothing’s been left to say. Silence isn’t a starter. Palate’s been cleansed by voice to end up here. Quiet washing the air of sounds wasted in wants.

Been Done’s been about halfway through the drink. From the corner of the eye, the bicep holds ‘done’ on skin where ‘been’ has been hidden in sleeve as one hand holds forehead and the other – nothing momentarily for a thought. A breath. Another conclusion to an opening not taken from the eye only using its corner.

Reserves have been excused from use. Hope’s been drained by reasonings brought from not begun to already done. Pretending’s machinations have rusted digging trenches no words can ever return from.

Wondering where silence wanders to when words come, Been Done goes for another sip. E is coming up out of the collar. How empty the future feels from being away, looking. How entitled everyone else feels drinking disenfranchised worries alone, watching.

Been Done’s about done. What comfort the neck, the shoulders would be if only those were not also concluded. Closed to talk.

In the emptiness of finishing first, opportunity begs release. Been Done is on the lips of the last taste as eyes think to meet in waiting. Hesitation. Ended. Silent, Opened to thoughts. Follow ups. What conclusions have come. What endings occurred. What began has been done before starting.