May 29, 2012


by Samantha Jordan

One half of a purple sea urchin
laid upwards. Its concave belly,
a white and jellied pink, bared itself
to the rain along the path
through the muskeg.

I'm told the ravens pick them up
by the shore and drop them here
on the concrete so they'll break open.
Then, they'll eat their insides.

I'm just waiting to know
what animal will pick me up
and crack me to eat my insides.
My mother always said
I worried too much
but had a good heart.

May 20, 2012

"Joy Cometh in the Morning"

Psalm Thirty
by Lex Runciman     

      Brakes fail.  We lie.
Carrots stick in the gullet,
      coughing triggers a stroke.
Rain freezes.  A runner on stairs
      unmoors itself and slides.
Against all justice, the baby sickens.
      A woman  putting on the thirteenth green
dizzies, her last words, "my head aches,"
      and "take me home."
War hovers.  Your watch is off.
      What child deserves such parents?
Dead fish clog the river, wash ashore,
      then the smell begins.  Someone's son
strangles a person he thinks he loves.
      Crops wilt.  The knife slips.
Ridicule leads to bruises.
      That person listens and walks away,
and that one, who said the wrong things,
      knows it.  No touch endures
The doctor is unsure.
      Memory says love is unreturned.
The words you have rehearsed
      vanish from your mouth.  Sleep
teases.  Gesture is not enough.
      I don't know how we go on.