Mar/Apr 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 2 Poetry |

Mayhem

So here it is at last, the distinguished thing.              Henry James My mayhem she wrote. As if she owned it. As if you could own a poem, or trouble. That        doomed boy Driving the jeep (christened The Thing) he was mayhem! Shearing corners,      dead banshee drunk. You're just a rider, somebody said. A pilot shifts with the wind. But you, you're just shotgun. My mayhem drove the car, she said, direct from the death seat. Maybe you think men ride differently         into it? Not the girl's way: hand on his hand on the gearshift. Not the girl's way, long hair blowing, sidekick glance: never straight ahead into what's coming? Our windshield's panorama stops cold there, that painted scene forming red        with snow in a poet's mouth. You could spell it out—word by word—say it was impossible to make come,             yet you did.   

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The Grief Game

By Carol Muske-Dukes

So here it is at last, the distinguished thing.              Henry James My mayhem she wrote. As if she owned it. As if you could own a poem, or trouble. That […]

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