Were we ever inspired?
Just for a moment?
Or is this our life?
Slackness in the blackness


Daniel Richter, Ferbenlaare, 2005

The Mangrove House
-- by Sandra Beasley

In April I lined up my best figurines
and brought the hammer down repeatedly.
I made a pile of hands, a pile of eyes:
only the mouths escaped, lipping

quietly under the bed. In May
I built a house in the root of a mangrove
and slithered in on my elbows,
weaving the door shut behind me.

They thought I needed rescuing.
They dragged me out. They sluiced vinegar
through my veins. They tied magnets
to my wrists. The doctors pronounced me

Fit as a fiddle. Now, they string me up.
They wax me down. My mother tucks me
under her chin, and I sleep. My father
plucks every hollow, and I sing.


The Charm
-- by Robert Creeley

My children are, to me,
what is uncommon: they are dumb
and speak with signs. Their hands
are nervous, and fit more for
hysteria, than goodwill or long
winterside conversation.
Where fire is, they are quieter
and sit, comforted. They were born
by their mother in hopelessness.
But in them I had been, at first,
tongue. If they speak,
I have myself, and love them.


Cherry Tomatoes
-- by Sandra Beasley

Little bastards of vine.
Little demons by the pint.
Red eggs that never hatch,
just collapse and rot. When

my mom told me to gather
their grubby bodies
into my skirt, I'd cry. You
and your father, she'd chide

the way, each time I kicked
and wailed against sailing,
my dad shook his head, said
You and your mother.

Now, a city girl, I ease one
loose from its siblings,
from its clear plastic coffin,
place it on my tongue.

Just to try. The smooth
surface resists, resists,
and erupts in my mouth:
seeds, juice, acid, blood

of a perfect household.
The way, when I finally
went sailing, my stomach
was rocked from inside

out. Little boat, big sea.
Handful of skinned sunsets.