Clara Munester

Subtle equality
charges rates of occupation
sand forms on the reception room's floor.

A new trail
leads right back
to the original watering hole

the taste is always the same
and the leaves on deciduous trees
filtering ochres into ponds

where artesian
bubbles slimly cloud
liquids that remain

shield you
only from you
no one else

wasps are laying dabs of mud
on the outer sill of your office window
in spite of a gathering, gloaming bank of stormclouds.



No How

On not so sad a day
for awhile
when we lived on Berryhill Road:

it was 1966
and I nearly
eleven.

The edge of town,
Phenix City, really
was covered in kudzu,
a new import
from across the big river.

That one day,
Alfie's big brother Floyd,
didn't show up home
from work,
down at the sawmill.

We worried a lot then
but not really
the Dillinghams did more

by the next month
the thunderstorms washed the gulleys clean
and new banks were then in view.

On a Thursday---
fly busy---
before Labor Day
we found a man's
or boy's body
underneath a cottonwood
near a brand new bend in the gulch
with pink ribbons
tied around both wrists, ankles
and his waist.

We thought it was Floyd
but maybe it wasn't

the Dillinghams won't...
not claim the corpse
no how.


© Mike Cluff