Igniting Memories

I've come to this place,
this silent morgue,
home of my childhood--
its stench fills my nostrils.

Here is the room
where I spent endless nights,
trapped like a rabbit in a snare,
listening for footsteps,
pretending to be asleep,
holding my breath.

I cannot forget the smell of him,
the whispers, the touch, the pain.
I want to strike a match and burn it all away.

Under the Covers

I search for the body of my gentleman,
the solid trunk resting in the ocean of sheets,
the tender curls of hair that cover his head,
the innocence of his sleeping face,
his tender lips waiting,
his breath:
the reek of stale beer and garlicky pizza.
TV arouses me now.

Tree-Climbing Days Are Over

I never thought much about squirrels.
I'd spot one dash across wires stretched high
above a busy street; what a daring chap I'd think.
Sometimes I�d see squirrels scamper round and round
in a merry chase with each other�s tail, just for the fun of it.
They've been known to take bird feed from those bird feeders.
Maybe they're just hungry. Life can be tough in the cold world.
Come to think of it--those brown furry creatures aren�t so bad.
They don't cut people off in cars, lie to their spouses,
or even think bad thoughts about their neighbor.
Their cost of living is nill; no taxes to pay either.
When they die, they just go back into the earth.
Today one solitary squirrel ran face first
into the car in front of me.
It's a sad way to die when you're just trying
to get across the street.

Days Like This

another day without fabric softener
razor blade days that cut in
and bleed with a steady flow
one more day of burning
my hand on hot irons
bitter grinds in my cup--
I long for the ooze of hot tea with honey

                                                                                                � Mo Swanson

Loch Raven Review Spring 2006 — Vol. 2, No. 1
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