Saturday, September 4, 2021

Four Tales for Liminal Afternoons

~ Nothing at the Stroke of Noon

Elena did not like the look
Of the shadow between her thighs.
She stood up from the bench quickly,
And strode off immediately,
But couldn’t quite focus her eyes.

The shadow was lost without her,
So it tagged along beside her,
But everything was different now
In the way the shadow bobbled.
Elena had broken somehow.

No one saw this but the shadow,
And shadows don’t see anyhow.

The bench warmed up in midday sun.
Elena broke into a run.

~ Hypocoristic

When a little hole opened
In the world, people were pleased
In the predictable ways.

They posed with it for pictures
And said, at last we can go
Somewhere else if we want to.

They gave it little pet names—
Doorhole, Gate-Gate, Mystery,
Portal o’Fantasy Place.

But the world grew very grey,
Since mostly it was the young
Who stepped through and ran away.

~ Huldre

Millenniums after
The strip-mining was done,
New religions sprang up
Around empty mountains

And pyramidal holes
Upside down in the ground.
The civilizations
Emerging from those faiths

Knew no astrology
And ignored the planets
But kept accurate clocks
Of crystals as hearth gods.

Their bad souls ascended,
While the good got to go
Deeper down in the ground
Where gods kept their own hearths.

Their angels were fairies,
Insectlike with clear wings.
From clouds they stole children.
Hide your kids when clouds sing.

~ Group Autobiography

At that point, we realized
We needed to escape,
And someone shouted,

In the words of every movie
Almost, ever made,
Let’s get out of here!

But of course, by then,
It was too late.

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