Ruth Z. Deming

Are they really that far away?
Seems like I could stretch
my arms and scoop a handful
to play with or sleep with
in my lonely bed.

Who knows? Perhaps if I do
I would ignite and you’d see
me no more.

Or my house would light up
like the manger and we’d all
be born again, given a second chance.

Starving, I wolf down many layered sardines
bathed in olive oil.

The King’s picture is on the papery cover
that rattles invitingly to my touch.

King Oscar would protect you from every threat
imaginable. Hordes of barbarians, with

Spears aloft. Floods on mountain-sides
that seek to squoosh us alive.

Thunderbolts of Zeus that
would sizzle our skin.

Such a hero is the King.
Broad shoulders with

Epaulets like ship
Masts.

Moustaches that sweep downward
A full beard like a roaring furnace.

He is our man.
The Good King Oscar.

editors note: Sardine salvation. Stock up for the apocalypse! (Canned ekphrasis? Uncanny! – check it out here.) – mh clay

Tic-Tacs, Orbit Gum,
slimy Beef Jerky.

What’s a huge Hershey Bar
with Almonds doing on the
rack near the National Enquirer?

Stealthily, this diabetic
puts it in her cart, along
with my healthy foods.

Driving home, I tear off the
brown paper wrapping, and
munch on it while the raindrops
pound on my windshield.

Is it worth losing my eyesight,
or having my toes amputated to
satisfy a five-minute taste
extravaganza?

The windshield wipers
sigh.

Reading the love poems of
Rupi Kaur, I’m forced
Once again to remember you.

Doris said I’d like you
When she sent me to your
Carriage house on Chew Ave
To put you in our magazine
Art Matters.

The love was instantaneous
A cake loving the icing
The clouds, the sun
The moon her earthbound romantics

And so I loved you.
You died without me
Thirty years ago.

Did you bring our shattered love
With you to your grave? It’s still
Inside me, forgotten, for the
Most part, but easy to revive,
Like moonlight when I step
Outside at night.

Be silent
Be silent when you wake up
in the morning light drizzling
thru your lavender drapes

Listen to the sounds of the world
whether the cars splashing up the
street – oh, so it rained last night! – or
the mournful whistle of the passenger train

Are you afraid to hear the
whispers in your own mind?
Give them room
Give them space
They have a right to be heard!

There’s that squirrel again
outside on the back porch
the same one I saw last week
Peering at me as he nibbles
an acorn – or is it a dreidl? –
as the world enfolds us both, unconcerned.