toes
bruised bloody by
hours
of stumbling over ancient tree roots
and
hesitated there
knelt
in the mud
resting
my cheek against the small dead
as
though they could whisper advice
~
this
way exhausted the days pass
and
i breathe heaving into the
sackcloth
of my bosom
sucking
in TIME
WITHERED
THATCH WAINSCOTTED BY SKULLTOPS
CYCLOPEAN
CLAWS BLINDLY SCRATCHING
HORSEMEN
CHURNING
PESTLE
WHIRLING
SELF
sickening with envy
at seeker sandal-falls departing FAVORED
~
no. no,
often they
do
not emerge at all
(til gray talons place HER prize atop the
fence)
half-ring
of teeth eclipsing another
piece
of sunlight
~
hours,
seasons
TIME
i lay in the mud against the bones, and hid
afraid
to enter
unwilling
to go home
* * *
Brock Marie Moore lives in South Texas with her partner, her dog, three cats,
hundreds of actions figures and My Little Ponies, and boxes full of comic
books. When not writing she is often reading, and when not reading
she can be found at the computer shooting monsters with flamethrowers instead of
getting anything useful done (though she insists that saving the universe is the
most useful thing she could be doing). Her website is http://brockmarie.net
Where do you get the ideas for your
poems?
A lot of my ideas for
both poetry and stories come from real-life experiences that made an impression
on me: spying someone unusual, visiting an eerie place, childhood
pretend games. I take the truth of the matter and then twist it up
with something fantastical, something that qualifies it as a tale of the wyrd,
while retaining the elements that feel human and real. The poem
'yaga' is a blend of my favorite Russian folklore and my own then-emotions of
frustration and fear to 'pass the bone fence.