Mudlark No. 45 (2012)


Last night spiderlings crossed the room 
on their mothers back, spinnerets softly humming.
She hears too much, sees too much.
The foxglove by the steps
startled her today
with its speechless throats and its spots.
One world at a time, one voice.
The most beautiful windows are made of stone.                                                                           


Seen here with a dozen Spanish woodcutters
clearing a forest north of Paris for fuel.
All seem to be leaning to the left, 
on axe handles, away from the smoky light.
Local Boy Makes Sure Troops Stay Warm.
Crumbling headline, pieces of faces.
The world send its love, 
strapped to the back of an ant.                                                                               


You’ve seen her portrait from the street,
pressed behind dark glass, 
framed by damp and heavy drapes. 
Seen her and looked away. And she has seen you
the way you see a grackle’s wing in flight,  
translucent, blurred, and dreamy. 
At night, from her bed, 
she blows a lamp in the forest out.                                                                               

Stephen Knauth | Frederica >>
Contents | Mudlark No. 45 (2012)