I made it on a Saturday
with romaine and green leaf lettuce
stems crisp and firm
fresh-boiled eggs in slices
the rose-white flesh of radishes
mushrooms cut kidney-style
spinach with that suede feel
and chicken strips grilled with garlic.
If only it was eaten at the party
or I hadn’t dumbly added dressing
I wouldn’t be standing here a week later
before the bright throat of the refrigerator
afraid to open the blue ironware pot
where Hansel and Gretel are lost
in the furry forest of the fungal underworld
and meat and greens are married
in the shadow of old Miss Havisham’s
spider-riddled wedding cake.
Holding my nose, blindly I bag
the mutant gallimaufry
and drop it in the trash, but as I do
I wonder what alien stews
must be composting in my neighbors’ cans.
See how the imagination festers?
About the author
C.E. Chaffin lived in Mexico for three years before moving to the redwood coast of California where he was joined by the ocean, two…
Read the full bioIssue 03 · February 2009
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Postcard Prose
- Wanderlust by Janice D. Soderling
- As Seen On TV by S. Diane Wellman
- Anders’ Place by William Males
- Travel Notes
- Bigbi in Brazil by Julian Zabalbeascoa
More from The Journal
- Postcard Prose
By Kelly Hill
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
- Travel Notes
By Sandra Larson
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
- Travel Notes
By Megan Hallinan
The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
- Poetry
to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
- Poetry
By Jason Warren
And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
- Poetry
By Anastasia Vassos
Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose