An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Do you know how her surgery went?
What surgery? She was supposed to have
a horse nebula removed from her head.
There's that bright red bird again.
You know what they say about cardinals...
if you see one, that means a loved one has passed.
I could play the fiddle all day long.
Why don't you?
Might as well, naught else to craic.
...Seeds you bring me this Sunday morning
in a month of Sunday mornings. They say it's
Easter, but obviously no bunny. Too Pythonesque –
all those fierce jellybeans and colored eggs
and resurrection still over a month away
according to the Taoiseach's latest proclamation –
best the rabbit stay hid in his cave
and we in ours till the gyre resets
& fret dissipates. You plant lilies in me –
superstition and odorless love tinged with
fear bordering on laughter. If those slow
thighs could maybe speed the beast,
those indignant desert birds stop
troubling my sight for just one day.
The falcon hasn't heard the falconer
in a long ass time. I'd give anything,
my favorite song, for some of that fake
grass to remind me how we used to be.
The King of Greenland
Resigned to our time out of time, we were toeing the line
lightly, crossing desiccated mountains toting plastic Nalgene
and high tensile aluminum, hydrating often to flush toxins
from tainted reservoirs of skin, going along with hurricanes
and barricades, noting where tornadoes touched down violently
in random nondescript towns in Texas, Connecticut, Ohio... the list
goes on, I won't bore you. The corps of engineers was reversing
the flow from sink back to aquifer. We won't suck the oceans dry
they assured us or try to sell Greenland to the lowest bidder.
I looked the other way but signs grew aggressive and insistent,
belligerent with indifference. Hunters roaming our yard stopped
wearing camouflage. Monarchs emerging from bright vermilion
chrysalae fluttered drunkenly toward the highway, a sickly verdigris.
I don't have to mention what the bees weren't doing. Crosses were
popping up in the oddest places and self-combusting. The hospital
required us to sign a pre-nuptial power of attorney to let them keep
our unborn children for life-saving medical research. It sounded
like a good idea at the time, even noble. Overnight our due date is
now our sell by date; our speed and emissions limits, suggested
retail prices. We tried covering our ears but fabric was thin,
the pitch akin to nails dragged across a chalkboard. RIP
is the sound a flag makes when it stops waving for a nation
and obeys the wind. Somewhere there must be a sign that says:
This Way Out of the corn maze, an arrow pointing the way out
of our own way – toward an off-grid pocket so unstrategic
and dull even Sauron's drones would overlook it. That's what
we're looking for, isn't it? A peaceful shire. A wizard to watch
our back. A ringless hobbit we can trust with no delusion
he'll live forever.
Partridge Boswell lives with his family in Vermont. He is the author of Some Far Country (Grolier Poetry). His poems appear in Poetry, The Gettysburg Review, Salmagundi,
The American Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, december, Plume, Hotel Amerika, Prairie Schooner, Southword, and The Moth. He is a co-founder of Bookstock literary festival.