Two Poems by R L Swihart
The Immigrant
The snare can be easily drawn: a frame within a frame, a mauve-pink storybook opening onto a sea of rolling green hills. The newlyweds atop the highest hill, wedding-cake close, gazing—cliché or no—at the sickle moon
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Waiting is impossible: competing narratives and scribbled margins. Cutting a half-inch from the stems, she places the daffodils in a simple vase and pours in the cool water. Within an hour: white stars opening to yellow centers
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Eternal life is death and Egon renders it perfectly: Sleeping Beauty, two claws, and a chessboard blanket
Rattigan Glumphoboo
In their case the two curves cross once a day
They never speak in English and Klee is their chi-rho
Today’s fare: Polish and The Creator
Their clothes and underthings are on the chair
Something I didn’t get and something I didn’t get
Which I’ll quickly fill with: Come! Come! Furioso, let’s sail
And now, because I can, I confuse us with them
About the author
R L Swihart was born in Michigan but now resides in Long Beach CA. (He just completed a “road trip” — from Long Beach…
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