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| helen losse |  | 1. Transplanted, Indoctrinated, But Not Actually Loved At first, she saw only the coldness. Tall buildings, people, the mass of them walking as a seeming unit, all carrying umbrellas. She in her wispy dress sensed the chill even then. As years wore on, she saw change— in her speech, in her actions, even in her lunch plans— until one day, she realized that she, too, always carried an umbrella. She thought then that she had became one of them. But of course, they knew what she did not know 2. Illusion of Motion So let poets pause to think of that which shines— of scoured pots hung beneath florescent bulbs, black patent shoes worn with a Sunday frock. How diamonds gleam on a woman’s left hand, pyrite that fools the eye to think it’s gold, mica on smooth garden paths, rocky sun-lit mirrors. All things that gather sunlight as their own— whatever dazzles like the gleaming snow by lesser rays from distant stars and moon. Why things that sparkle are such friends of light: Gloss marries shimmer. 3. Artificial Pacifist Black ants on the counter-top chomp crumbs from a sandwich. Artificial pacifist—theory over action— wants them gone. 4. The Lone Figure It is late, the sky is black, the air chilling, and despite the silver moon, the lone figure is a faint silhouette. The snow blows in like loneliness or hunger, and bitter is the flavor in this forest of sorrow, where the winter trees are bare. Like a night bird—gray, or is it brown?— the man cries and cries. What has he lost that pains him so? Will he live to taste the sweetness of the next, glorious spring morning? | |
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