End of World Ikebana By KAREN MORRIS
-Written on Rapture day, the last day of the world, May 21, 2011
The fact of love, dot, dot, dot— is not love laughter over the telephone factoids of connection— there is no taking back not love my news is of empty spaces—
FENCE AND FIELD
Bareback By CECELE ALLEN KRAUS A stranger came into my yard on a horse as I stood barefoot with nothing to do. The rider dismounted and I jumped at the chance to ride, to leave my house with four rooms for the six of us, a broken window with cardboard replacing it, the spaciousness of a scorching day with no plans except a swim at the Queen City Pool. I was eager to leave that tract house in the nondescript neighborhood that edged up
each word a dropped blossom, a sacrifice to the wind of activity— my shears sing over the small mountain of pink blossoms accumulating on my lap— my phone is irretrievably off the hook— like the petals of this poem.
IN THE FIELD
to the all-black Druid City High School where on Friday nights Daddy walked us over to hear the marching band play Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley rhythms, putting me in mind of the dark night he took us down a dirt road in Micaville to the black Baptist Church where male quartets sang of heaven and home— the sound track of his red clay childhood. Spooked by a girl on his back, the horse bolted and galloped to the two-lane highway. Scared stiff, having only ridden my Grandpapa Allen’s mules, I shot a glance down the highway and jumped. Now a fresh scar inches along my collar bone reminding me of that first scar— a curvy slash over my left eyebrow, quite graceful, if you don’t mind its livid red. The old scar’s color comes back now with age and that urge to ride an unknown horse still flares up from time to time.
THE RIVER REPORTER
LITERARY GAZETTE 2012 • Page 7