SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Thirteen
TERENCE WINCH
Risk Factors
My neighbor opens the door and lets me in,
as celestial music plays somewhere inside.
There are lightbulbs all over the place,
as in a movie star's dressing room.
What great illumination you have, I say.
All the better to blind you with, she replies.
We stroll into the kitchen where the aroma
of anxiety infuses the air. I look out the window
and see a platoon of changelings sneaking
into the backyard shed. It gives me the creeps.
Some say the Devil's dead, she tells me,
and buried in Killarney.
I advise her to keep her bathroom and kitchen
clean. Brush and floss, I admonish. Cover you
mouth when you sneeze. You are being colonized from within
and without, I warn. Things you can't even see
are all around you, waiting to cause you harm.
Please wash your hands, I implore her,
especially after having sex. Then wash them again.
It isn't the end of the world. That comes later.
It's just that I heard a talk show host say that our weaknesses
are our strengths, and vice versa. My neighbor wanders
around the neighborhood claiming everyone is having affairs.
I'm worry about that bus ride I'm supposed to take tonight.
I'm not having an affair. The Devil is not dead.
He is living quietly in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Birds of Paradise
In our tribe, shameful sex is sacred.
Tradition demands
we strap cold stones to our shoulders.
Our coffee
pot is as ancient
as the sea horse.
We eat seaweed sandwiches for breakfast,
and the land
is as soft as a loaf of bread.
The bog holds our forgotten vocabulary
and at night we hear the ancients calling out,
O, don't forsake us, o treasure of our heart.
The clocks play tricks
on us. We sit on the stoop on hot summer nights.
Then we head for the bar.
By five a.m. tomorrow our brains
are mixed with Kerrygold cheese and fried in a skillet.
The wild geese are gone.
The charm necklace you gave me
is choking me.
We smoke, we steal, we make
little love noises
all night long.
There is a beautiful mermaid
who is always waving
goodbye to us,
even though we're not going anywhere.
None of this takes place in China, Russia, or Missouri.
In the valley, drums can be heard
in the distance,
the wind blowing jigs through the air,
near glinting streams
where the moorcocks crow,
and blackbirds in the homesick
trees squawk
their astonishment
to the heavens.
Terence Winch lives in the Washington, D. C. area. His latest book, That Ship Has Sailed, was published in 2023 as part of the Pitt Poetry Series from the University of Pittsburgh Press. He is the author of eight earlier poetry collections. An American Book Award and Columbia Book Award winner, he has also written a young adult novel called Seeing-Eye Boy and two story collections, Contenders and That Special Place. His work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Oxford Book of American Poetry, Poetry 180, and 6 editions of Best American Poetry. He was the recipient of a Gertrude Stein Award for Innovative Writing.
