PoetryEtc Featured Poet: Mark Weiss   

  Contact Wild Honey Press Links Reviews List of Publications Real Audio Complete Texts Gallery Home Page


There were bluebirds and frogs in the bathroom.
His house was an arcadian fantasy he had built to replace society.
There were knives all over the house,
swords and spears on the walls, paper scissors, shears, a cleaver,
and everywhere there were people, ready to come in the windows,
so that he kept a knife by him as he slept.

Because the dry-rot tended to get the upper-hand
and a green mold had taken over the linens
he decided to get a jump on the intruders. He hunted at night.
If he found them
asleep in their beds
or if they were wandering in the dark forest, his forest
he would kill them quickly
and cut off their hair
the hair of young boys
so soft it could be taken for women's     the boys themselves
that soft.

In the heart of the sleeping boy he killed was a young girl sleeping.
She was curled on her side in a flannel nightgown     her body
like his
what one calls lithe. Her hair
which was yellow
slept on her nape and shoulder.

She played the violin
with a dexterity
infinitely pleasing to her father.
When he watched her, his eyes
warmed the spots where her breasts would be,
causing her to blush with pleasure, no matter how crowded the room.
She never missed a note. He thought,
"she is the goddess Diana," her hand
poised on the bow     awaiting the attack.
Wolves and pigs and bears, he thought, she will turn me
into wolves and pigs and bears.

On the ground were the bones of small animals or children.
His body was completely covered with hair.
At the mouth of the cave a cypress was growing
and two flowers,
one yellow
one red.

from Intimate Wilderness, 1976.