Bio Note: I am a supervisor of custodians in Sarpy County, Nebraska and received my MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. I had the good fortune of studying under the late Pulitzer Prize winner James Tate. I enjoy piano, rigorous exercise, and painting. I have been published in The Lyric, Blue Unicorn, Impspired, and elsewhere.
The Silver Lark
She plays the flute in a house in the country, not letting others hear her play; she is very good, quite exceptional, practicing her chromatic scale that bends upward to the sky as the pear and cherry trees bend in with dying autumn ears. The attic is a cathedral where notes of the E-flat scale ricochet back to the gleam of the flute. When she plays a quick skipping song, birds become envious, listening through the shingles– this human, this soft doll, with her brittle wand, better at what we were born to do, can she fly also? She is beckoning a faun to come out of the withering thicket by the creek, or some new romantic beast from out of unharvested cornfields, some translucent prince to follow the music up the unpainted steps to her cold, pyramidical, raftered room and recline till all codas have completed. She wants sprites to weep, her tremolo to pulse through stone down to underground rills. The unmowed grass quivers and bends toward the house despite the wind – her graminaceous arena, as she aims for high G beyond the sky.
Exit from Eden
Farewell farm, good-bye yielding grass. The skyline chipped and filthy approaches. Fetid city kiss my ass. The air was sweet from pear trees, alas my heart had slowed on shady benches. Farewell farm, good-bye yielding grass that grew up to the ancient house that cast a shadow of sour rot but not the stench as the fetid city– kiss my ass. I'll miss the tiger swallowtails that pass my window searching for greenest peaches. Farewell farm, good-bye yielding grass holding the hoof prints of cows who trespass from Gerlock's farm, the tabby just watches. Fetid city kiss my ass– six miles to go I dread the hoarding mass of criminals, sloths and smoking wretches. Farewell farm, good-bye yielding grass. Fetid city kiss my ass.
©2022 Marc Darnell
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