Monday, December 10, 2012

NEW! Poem by Molly Bendall

Molly Bendall

SEASON OF PERPETRATORS

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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