Big and Bad

I believe in lurking, in weaving through shadow
near gingerbread houses where chubby children
stain their faces with fudge and candied yams.
I’ve begun to salivate when I smell frightened pork
and have assessed the power of my lungs.
I’ve developed a disdain for sunlight
and for grizzled hunters – their plaid shirts,
broad shoulders, and knit hats. I don’t need to be seen,
only felt – a cold wind. I’ll crouch in the dark
beneath the hedge, waiting until you notice
moonlight pooled in my eyes – a glint, then it’s done.

4:30am

Of course you know the house is still,
heavy with silence. The furniture
settles into the floor – stones into mud.
Left on the counter to soften,
a stick of butter abandons its shape.

I’m a disturbance, a fish breaching
the surface of a dozing pond. Even the dog
ignores my shuffle, grunts, twisting
into her pillow as tight as a knot. Yet,
it’s the only time of day I can bear

an hour’s thunk. Hefting darkness,
Apollo crouched beneath his sin,
I position myself in the living room’s heart,
my back propped against rising day –
a pillar against its toil.

Conscientious Objector

I care not for this myth-making:
the clang of sword and shield,
beach sand jellied with the blood

of honor-bent brothers. Let me,
as Paris, dwell in a fig tree’s shade,
dissect an afternoon

with attentive eyes. Sheep
loiter in green meadows.
Daffodils tempt me with their passions:

sunlight and soil. Why chisel
my face onto history’s
alabaster? I’ll repose the while,

listen to hornets hum like the plucked
strings of harp and lyre.