Three poems
BY Clarice Eckford
Illustration by Thomas Bewick
A Yellow Book Sits Beside Us. We Must Not Look in It.
It Frightens Us.
The naughty schoolteacher lit the books on fire.
She hesitated before the bell rang, but was sure after dinner.
Lobsters and monsters changed her mind.
Her hairdryer was so lonely it made faces at the sunshine.
More pressing matters sat inside brokers letting stupid cacti
make their decisions.
Forget about the curtains,
we have a cramp.
Childhood
Opening my head to the heavens,
I look to fevered children
hopping into my arms
like perfectly round potatoes.
Sometimes all I could hear
was a raging ragtime piano
on our never-ending journey.
Pursing our lips at every corner store and bus stop;
dogs and their owners
grinned at us
like their lives depended on it—
and all I could do
was fold my arms
and cry until my buttons popped.
Pigeons (1)
the image
of seven perfectly combed moustaches
walking down the street
side by side
frightens me sometimes
a pigeon leads the way and says
“Come on, let’s get you beautiful.”
and the men behind it
sing songs
sing to the sky
chirp the tunes
of angels fl ying above
watching their every move
Pigeons (2)
yes, my name is forklift
as the sun rose the day that I was born
the clouds hurled bits of pale blue sky at me
crumpled up by a gang of delinquent pigeons
that hated my mother
fuck the pigeons
