Your Body is a Much Wilder Land by Kathy Nguyen
A silent thud touches the ground
and a burst of leaves and birds
shoots in the air
like an Old Geyser.
January - February 2010 | Through the Looking Glass
A silent thud touches the ground
and a burst of leaves and birds
shoots in the air
like an Old Geyser.
If the credit crunch has hit you
and slapped you on the head,
take the sunshine from the daffodils;
it will stand you in good stead.
After her husband died, Elise began to visit the room he called the library more often. When Gerald had been alive, it had always been his domain and she’d never liked it. The windows were too small and sunlight never quite seemed to reach the tall shelves of books lining the wall from floor to ceiling.
When that one red fire tree sticks above the rest
on that autumn mountain,
I’m glad you saw it
Nocturnal means night
Hunters and prey scurry here
Death sounds in the night
Some say it is a punishment from God and that the sorrows of the land do not reach the justice and mercy from Heaven.
Coyotes’ night cry
We hear the call of the wild
They howl at the moon
A step off the trail
lands me in the undergrowth
of new ideas
Watching for stones and snakes
flicking away flies
Something alive beneath the soil
writhes and stretches
That summer we threw snowballs at each other on July 4th. We skinny dipped in the ocean and walked between steep cliffs, on quivering rope bridges, while our sister screamed in terror. But mostly, that summer, we met Arnie the O.P.
Babbling brook winding slow
As if it had nowhere to go
Rippling waters soothing song
Singing softly all the day long
Your mind is a forest: uninterrupted,
wild, and when literary winds drift
in words you plant them to blossom
No one knows where this began—too much came together
to create this crisis.
Once there was a beautiful place, a mountain shorn and seeded, carpeted with wild flowers that perfumed the air, the ground flat and even beneath my feet. I could walk to the edge and let my legs dangle, all the world spread below in green and gold, dream-haze heat rising from the pavement winding through the valley.
To hear her tell it I was a hair twirling, gum snapping, airhead when we first met. She loves to tell the story; she has witnesses to back her up and can reenact our first meeting on a moment’s notice. No amount of disagreement on my behalf can prove her wrong. She thought I was an idiot the first time she met me.
Neville Grimes was not a pleasant man. Nor was he typical or normal in any way. He had started his working life at sixteen, taken all the overtime he could and saved. He invested and took out insurance schemes and counted his assets. Friday nights he enjoyed the most because he indulged in counting up how much money he was worth.
She walked the city streets calling his name
“Give me funny. What’s your idea of funny?” said Claire to the man sitting across from her in the studio of Cirque de Quirk. He had the big bulbous nose of a drunk, spiked jet black hair, watery eyes, and a half-moon mouth.
you turn up
half an hour late
smelling of beer and say
what’s up babe