In This Moment . . .
. . . it may be possible
to devise an aria of
what would have seemed
in an earlier context
only dissimilar mutterings
of a deranged minstrel
who had been run down
by the emperor’s chariot
and was allowed to sing
only in the most distant
corners of the royal
cactus garden where
the deaf gardener
resting beside a bucket
of red prickly pears
was moved to tears
by the stories that swirled
in the singer’s black eyes.
MIKE COLE was born in Fresno, California (1948), and graduated from Fresno State College (now California State University Fresno) in 1971 when a Fresno Poetry Renaissance led by Philip Levine was underway. Over a very sporadic 45-year publications history (due to a 32-year public teaching career), Cole’s poems have appeared in such journals as Antioch Review, Beyond Baroque, In the Grove, The San Joaquin Review, Laurel Review, Midland Review, Blast Furnace, and others. One of Cole’s poems appeared in the anthology Highway 99: A Literary Journey through California’s Great Central Valley, published by Heyday Books. Cole’s first book manuscript, The Encyclopedia of Naught, is making the rounds of contests and publishers. He currently lives in the Sierra Nevada Foothills near Yosemite National Park.
The Day Witch
is an amateur with an anger problem. She hexes executives and bans bosses from her boundary. She draws symbols in the sand, outlines the office with a ring of ashes, wishes and wishes till exhaustion takes her. She curses the day certain people were born, bears ill-will like a hairstyle. Everything she touches a talisman. Another charm, another day on the calendar. Haggard and wrecked, she wreaks havoc.
The day witch burns bridges. She is sick of the bitches. Hands twitch lines in the air: she casts spells, sends hexes to the next door neighbors, ensorcels colleagues from cubicles, and harbors general resentments. She conjures trouble for beleaguered fools who fall for it fully.
The day witch stitches voodoo dolls from rags to riches of misery. Minute by minute, she makes minute changes, challenging her own better judgment. Patched heart, torn eye, stuffing on the floor. You’re nothing but a burlap bag to her. One pin goes in — then the rest.
The day witch reaches her limit. Wretched and wanted, she’s hoping for something that doesn’t come. All her magic is tragic, misguided, and sad. She doesn’t want to hurt them. She doesn’t even hate them. She just wants to work less, turn worthless to purpose. Settle by a sea somewhere where she’ll comb sand from her hair, watch the ships sail by, and record harmless incantations in a commonplace book.
SKYLAAR AMANN is a poet and artist living in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has been published in Cirque, Prime Number, Belletrist Coterie, and elsewhere. She is a 2012 Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship finalist. She is online at www.skylaaramann.com.
Almost the Last Man on Earth
Magnetized and caught in the push-
pull commotion, still, we knew making love
in a lawn mower shack at the edge of town
wouldn’t jump start a new republic.
Just one short act of consolation, a slow
reordering of orbits. We held a spark,
hunted a small thatch of kindling, by the time
it was over, there was hardly enough
to warm two pairs of empty hands.
For once the rustling sounds in the cupboards,
kicking of leaves, and falling bodies
were on purpose and the heat we felt, our own.
We walked separately back to camp,
where no-one sings in the lantern light,
where even the snakes are not safe.
JASON BRAUN is the Associate Editor of Sou’wester. He has published fiction, poetry, reported or been featured in The Riverfont Times, Prime Number, ESPN.com, Big Bridge, The Evergreen Review, SOFTBLOW, The Nashville City Paper, Jane Freidman’s blog, Star*Line, and many more. His Paradise Lost Office App contextualizes John Milton’s epic poem for the cubicle crowd and is available at iTunes. He releases music under the moniker Jason and the Beast.
