Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator
‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth
Toward the leftover quiche
Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon
When sun meets to kiss moon—
And mustard, your yellows bold
A bit old, but still at play—
Mummified lime, plastic lined
Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—
Four salad dressings,
Daughters of the virgin oil—
Bright Wednesday’s sauce
Must find solace at all cost
Before the scourge of poisoned moss—
A couple of red jellies
To keep a merry belly
Harvested during the sweetness
Of His grand spring—
A dire few leaves of spinach
Must be eaten in a pinch
Or thrown into a stew anew
Cat food can, oh my love be content
Yet, small miracles abound
In these cool vestiges—for—
Behind the onion skins
And forgotten slice of apple
My hand moves with assured fate—
Look at what Providence hath left!
A cold beer is found no less!
O, wonderous workings, I’m blessed.
Tiles
The tiles have a series of cracks, a map of years. Years reshape, transform into twists, gnarls, fissures. Without the years, he thinks, the present wouldn’t look real, authentic, contain beauty. The present, always polishing, rebuilding, gentrifying, trying to reface the past. But one can’t forget the past, shouldn’t, even the bad stuff, especially the bad stuff.
Evil is a beauty. You must look at it with careful, discerning eyes, wise eyes, eyes that cry without distorting reality, eyes that know evil can be unstable, eyes that know it can take a bite out of you when you least expect it. Sometimes, you must bite it back…hard.
He places his hand over some cracks, cool, slightly rough, rests… until a spot becomes warm.
Traveling Near the Dark
There’s a quietness about the river
broken by a random leap, splash of steelheads.
a prairie hawk loses a feather.
The natives drink a loud liquor
on their fishing platforms, dip nets
looking for fish who choose
to become parts of ceremonies.
The valley refracts strong light
that moves with the quiet.
Hills are made of dead gold,
skeleton orchards, lost spirit guides.
Bear scat litters small pastures
where the river overruns its banks,
forming shallow pools.
I’m cautious like a fool and listen.
The sun sets earlier here.
I knew that going in
I’m searching for rain or shadows
They only last for a short period.
My phone drops, small echo
Black screen on slick green moss
I yell for some reason
Maybe to prove I can make a sound
The sun throbs red…west…hovers
next to the peak of Mt. Hood.
Highway 14 yanks at me with its noise
where occasional deer lie still
on the shoulder of its pavement,
small trickle of blood in their teeth.
Dusk is as good as night here.
I run.
Moira (given name)
The creek doesn’t have to be aware of us, but we’re always conscious of the creek.
Receiving a Fine In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these fare inspectors in the crowd;
Donuts with icing, cream filled full.
The Ocean Welcomes Me Back
She knows me.
Though, I haven’t seen
All that she is…..
All her anger and angst
Frozen at times, treacherous.
I know her
From the safety of my footing.
She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled
Not by ebb, but by longing
A craving for our meeting.
She allows me to see her.
I am but painted doll
Easily tripped into a fall.
We are cyclic, together.
Friends as we are
I see her placid face
Fierce, reflecting sky.
Her cheeks aged, rippled
As they were at the beginning.
She’s my crone
My witch of calm
Curled slightly
With wavy hair
Rebelling,,,,,
The straightening of her tides.
Her voice, mesmerized magnetic
To my metal ears.
Grounded by emotion
She nudges me
To a rhythm depth tone.
My womb vibrates
With her motion
At the same time
I am her birth.
Her movement is mine
I am she, like her,
The invertebrate
With liquid body
Skin of whatever color
You wish to call me
We are deep in wrappings
Around dense mineral
Earthen cultrate creatures
Terrestrial mud makers
That simple creation act
Pottery, clay, and figure
Shaped by moisture
Solidified by solar storm.
I feel like she is forever
Whose depths
I know by kindred.
We raise our spirits
(For me, this once)
To mist and cloud
Transform, evaporate
Until our salt
Is yanked from our souls
And we fall
To new fawns
of phosphorescence
If I were to say
“Listen to her”
You would have
Already heard
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