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At night I hear the crickets talking to me,
their black backs
slick and reflective
against the moon.
When the sun comes up,
I leave the doors ajar so
they come inside to hide
under the chests and in the corners of the room;
their Morse code of clicks and chirps
a metronome for my writing hand.
Terry Collett May 2017
I cycled to the farmhouse
where Milka lived.

After resting my cycle
by the fence
I walked
to the front door
and knocked.

Her mother
opened the door.

She smiled
and welcomed me in.

She said Milka
was in the bath
and offered me
a cup of tea.

I sat at the kitchen table
and watched
as she walked around
preparing the teapot
and arranging three cups
and saucers.

I studied her
the way she moved
her hips
and how warm
she seemed.

She turned
and asked me
how I was.

I said I was fine
taking in
her ample *******
and the colourful
apron she wore.

She turned again
and I breathed in the air
the smell of bread
and the logs burning
on the Aga
and her motherly
milky smell.

I wondered how long
Milka would be
and how she looked
in the bath
with nothing on
wishing I could go up
and wash her
back and front.

Her mother put
the cup and saucer
in front of me
and sat down opposite
and offered me biscuits
from an open tin.

I smiled at her
and she talked
about Milka
her eyes on me
large and liquidy
like small seas.

I pictured myself
a few weeks before
in front of Milka
on my knees.
Mel Harcum Feb 2015
I have an old farmhouse inside my chest,
wooden siding rotten in places and windows
fractured from too many winters,
the roof of which sags near the chimney--
faint smoke-clouds rising, and a light
glowing yellow inside the kitchen, a beckoning

invitation into the faded blue walls
full with portraits of four--my mother, father,
and little sister--brassy frames hung close
together above the wooden table,
nicks and scratches connecting each placemat
like dots of the coloring book page left
magnet-stuck to the refrigerator.

The countertops have grown dusty.
fruit-bowl collecting gnats and mold,
but the zinnias over the sink flourish, replaced
daily and blooming red as the teakettle
rusting on the only remaining stove-top burner,
the others broken, tossed into the garbage
beside the back door, which leads to a forest--

rib-like oaks bent and bowed
over the farmhouse, ivy vines coiled ‘round
each trunk, stretching limb to limb, weaving
webs tangled as the unruly branches from which
they hang, caressing the slumped rooftop
as if to remind the battered, tired building how,
despite everything, the hearth still smolders.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Written Sitting against an Oak tree outside of a family friend's farm in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

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