By Syd Weedon

There will be sad air dripping
its stale nectar on the ground.
No paper towel will conquer it,
muddy puddles everywhere.
The children of strange gods
will walk between the toxins,
naked, luminous, unseeing
of the danger near their feet.

We will read the solutions from
Cracker Jack boxes and breathe,
“These things will not work.”
A dove purple and green coos.
We are not the brittle nubile
whores we once were; get over it.
You will pay a fair rate this time
and thank your lucky stars for it.

Ah hah! You are pregnant with it,
pregnant with poison and darkness.
You will give birth to words and
nightmares, and it will hurt, bad…
I can’t help you with that, sorry –
you must do your own bleeding.
I will put on a pot of coffee and
try to stay awake for your travail.