The nosy cherubs on the lamps

           by Abigail Cloud

THE EVERYDAY DEMON EXPERIENCES BURN-OUT

Something on the water. Something

wholesome, like spoiling corn crops

or sparking a tri-state wildfire. Or

a bit of glamour, like stopping glass

elevators in casinos, between floors,

then dropping them. I'm tired

of small catastrophe, the delicate

balance between shrugged-off accident

and tiny horror. Fits of pique, bursts

of desperate memory, tireless, dull

annoyance: How many brittle ankles

can be wrenched in holes? How many

jugs of milk can be soured before time?

How many smashed heirlooms, rained-

out parades, singed fingertips, coins

dropped in grates, stained blouses

before business meetings? How

many shiny balloons are there still

to burst?

TRYST

The whirlybird moon, the spangles

int he cloud of her skirt, a leopard

pump hide-and-seeking in a curl

of the blankets. Her nerves banged

an anthem to the sexy Bartlett

pears, the sexy palm plant draped

in the corner, the mirror like a mouth

on the wall. She made her excuses

to the nosy cherubs on the lamps,

muffled their commentary with scarves.

She knew there would be mock

goodnights, a fractional vocabulary.

She knew a belt would get looped

around the bedpost, a candle snuffed

out with a thumbpad. The sexy china

bull. The sexy coat rack. The cherubs

knew it would all end in smoke.   

From The American Poetry Review, March/April 2014.