Monday, December 10, 2012

NEW! Poem by Molly Bendall

Molly Bendall


They dream as if their plights were real, they flinch and scrape.

If speed ever once
shivered for them, if a heat thermal came pushing up,

they’d devour their own future,  and they’d sell off
their fortune:  one yard, one boulder.
A green gel comes between us
then springs back so the lens fades to blue, but it’s not like floating,
it’s closer,
and there’s a flap of skin. The keeper

says they’re nursing that wound.

Not a scent of threat, more like preening, more like a wedding,
coral trees assemble behind.

Flexing into thought, I’m woozy
with lateness.

Their pompadours  are a tangle of magic straw.  
I give way
to wide words cast on the hillside, as their pink tongues

stab the black air, rank and sinew steadfast.

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