Poetry March 2011

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Davon Loeb is back with us again, offering three deeply introspective poems. He has quite a knack for touching the heart of woman.

~ ~ ~

Dear William

Love was a fallen stone her eyes tried to catch.

She’d blink, and the clouds would move,

and every morning her eyelashes would

touch the sky.


Licentious stories about

Kings and Queens swung her imagination,

wide-eyed, with a smile sewn into each passing

page. The beggars and jesters came calling

like birds’ songs from the trees.


And every night, she held her pillow between

her bone-colored knees, laughter echoing

throughout her hollows, in iambics, love would

sing. And caress her ears like feathers do.


Her eyes ran into the ocean

with her father’s favorite Shakespeare book.

In the cake of her leather boots

flowers wilted, with sand and shiny green

blades. And love was a painted actor

emerging from Holy Trinity’s churchyard leaves.



She lies on the kitchen floor,

a silhouette outlined by a fleeting sun.

A bottle of undulant syrup

slants and lashes at her words,

leaving them whispered underwater.


Buzzed by the bees bumbling at the bottoms of her

feet–socks her mother wore,

before mom became teeth in the grass,

a fragile skeleton in stridency.


And like the weed that’s watered,

she grows and she drinks with

dirt dug under her nails.

She enjoys the bandages after the blades,

and the knots of hair knitting between her

knuckles, like lattice–

and she emits bravery like babies’ breath.


Ms. Malice

Pranks the lucid eye–

walks with thorns and arches backs

by bending knees like prays.


Rifles ravenous blows–

leaving pelts unctuous

and blood un-clotted

and smiles stark with quarrel.


A rendezvousing wound

plugged with pumice

and the scent of pomegranate.


Shrouded in a garland of flowers,

waits for no cue, proceeds

predatorily in desire for malice.

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