Gnawing at the Flesh

Teeth gnaw at the flesh below
hungry to erase what was once sweet.

There is a throbbing beating
at the rhythm of a dying heart.

It feeds to grow like a playing ball
made of rebar and concrete.

The creature has no game in mind
its only purpose to wreck a world.

With glowing eyes it seeks another target
red with fire it burns like a venomous reptile.

It dreams of many kin for a great invasion
to overtake the domain of the formerly young.

Showing the way to a vast army of demons
it follows veins, arteries and wrinkles.

It devours the hopes and deeds of a gentle soul
until it too in a senseless act faces its own demise. 

Her daddy’s old mirror

The glass may not lie
No more than another image
Of what she may want to see
In the old two-way mirror of her will.

Yesterday yet she played in the dark room
Of past days on the stage of her theater
Now strewn with particles of memories
In the midst of spider webs and dusty mounds.

A single swipe of the palm and a rebirth
The smile frozen on the icy plane remains
Smooth upon the pearly shroud of younger days
Ready to play once again and forever more.

There she shed the scars time gifted her
star in the infinite acts of the life she rehearses
day after day lines fall upon the boards
telling the story of a little girl and her bloody knees.

Gazes may fall upon the tale imagined by the onlooker
Powerless to shun the endless giggles in her breast
The oval reflection of her soul agrees
It is time again to play hopscotch on the pavement. 

Last Recall

Departing is not always a prime choice
especially in the middle of the daytime hour.

Worries and memories of the mundane may linger
within the soul of the one so attached to the land.

So many details left behind unfinished on the plane
of a rugged surface not to be ventured upon again.

It had been a morning filled with warm aromas of
a darkness turning to dewy sunshine.

A beginning like so many more before
and then a step into a gentle timeless space.

Thinking of things left behind he wondered
what if all those details were still awaiting.

How could his daily passions continue alone
his home stand without the pillars he once was?

Carved in his soul a last steamy cup from another land
grilled slices and eggs he so much had longed for in a dream.

Caught between duties and eternal freedom he sighed
at once all welcoming the wisdom of all ages.

Soul on a platter

The journey of a thousand years has ended
tired the little guy longs for a moment’s rest
to remember his birth, he can no longer do.

Pacing the perimeter of a house of dolls
he lets his sharp fingers seek his dying heart
from within his chest to awaken, and to revive.

Enveloped in the shroud of his fighting self
in awe at the power of trees and flowers around
he falls to the knees, hoping for hail.

What is left for his blood to do, as the river dries
all bottle up in a cistern with thickening walls
yet the echo lasts for the void of galaxies.

The package, tied with a broad bow of blue
readied for eons to be the present of all times
his beating soul devoted on a deep golden platter. 

Southern Rains

Balmy drops from heaven vanish upon a crash
infinite in their power to continue to no end
they make a wall to a transparent fortress.

The child escapes in her summer suit
to drink the essence of a world she cannot fathom
soon lost in a waltz with the realm which made her.

She slips on the slide of a wet grassy slope
but she will not fall until her dance is done
her pearly flesh shielded by the puerile waters.

Her lips laugh in the enjoyment of this great meal
as she swallows pieces of the universe
so much like her, full of the original burst.

Now the time has come to embrace her dream
dizzy with the swirls of her giddiness she abandons herself
under the delighted eye of so many caring souls. 

About the Author:

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.