David Menzies

Apartment Hunting

Rachel Lin Moody loves the rare twinkling
of a dying streetlight she'll pass by, sinking
into the soft, mocha leather of the Eclipse's
interior. Backseat towning, but torn away
to think that this quaint dilapidation stays
a fallen star that glows from the right view.

A draped fall evening and she hums a tune
about wishing upon fallen stars. In the car,
she and Heather pass a worn-glazed bus
and seeing it, Rachel Lin Moody bundles up
in her new coat from a second-hand store
in wonderful South Boston; Heather tells her
she can't wait to get back to their dorm.

'Makes no difference who you are,'
Miss Velasquez says, 'People shouldn't
have to live like that.' Seven-year-old
Diorka nods, almost losing her hold
on her toy binoculars on the bumpy bus
ride back from a tour of apartment molds.

Two hours to get back to the shelter;
all the way Diorka tries to melt her
mother's brain so when it gets dark
she can look through to the stars.
Miss Velasquez is already molten
flowing; her daughter won't feel
how cold it is under fading streetlight.

In a dorm, Heather and Rachel sleep
in the ethereal hue from their window-
Diorka's toy binoculars swing to and fro
in her bed, quietly, as not to wake her mother,
next to her, in their small room. She looks for stars
out of the window when there are passing headlights.



I hate drinking,
so get me drunk enough
that you can indulge your
dreams of being a surgeon
and cut below my falling slope
to fuck around. Just pull
out all the wires that make
drawbridges work. Cause
one good turn deserves


I'll walk to where the park
has a view of planes taking
off and sit there intent on
trying to enjoy nature; cause:
I don't get to go to parks a lot.
I'll sit Indian style with my back
to a tree and pull out the piece
of paper she gave me telling
me how great I am and that
it's not fair people don't get to
see that, and bye. Cause home beckons
her, or, something like that. Home
for me was just a diversion for
her, and then the pigeons will
fly at the sound of her plane
cutting through the air like
it was going into another

Sin, but roundabout

It takes incompetence in the ways of sin
To find one's self alone in permanent again
and again, perhaps, too afraid
to take part in communal sin: people made
happy by using others and making misery
sweet with company. Knowing a history
of the successful beginning and slope of
worldly ignorance, but wisdom breaks off
in the loneliness that is sin's affliction
on those scared of themselves picturing
fiction where the necessary questions
are answered, "Yes." And then it wins.

David Menzies has poetry published in Spire Press, Astropoetica, Subjective Substance, and poems in Listening To The Birth Of Crystals, a U.K. poetry anthology which can be purchased at Amazon UK or at this link.


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