By Fabrice Poussin
I have heard of those great pachyderms finding their way home in the dark a great resting place for their kind. I saw the little girl cry on the curb Mr. Mumps the kitty was lost once more but this time it was different. They say the domestic feline can tell when it is time to head to celestial dens so they go off never to return. Grandpa buried his great shepherd his fifth in so many lonely years perhaps it was King or Thor. I wonder how many men follow a path on the lost backstreets of abandoned cities to curl up in a ball and wait for salvation. Alone with a bag of rags and the stench of grease long widowed, divorced or orphaned they too die forlorn with no name. It will be dark behind the trash bins wet and frigid with the last acid rains when one of many will breathe his last. No one will know, fewer will cry as next to the alley cat fallen to hoodlums seeking a thrill the man once a little boy dies with a shiver.
Half Past Eternity
It may have been past a millennium in a space where time was futile. A spec in the vast darkness or perhaps a galaxy swirling through the unknown. Alive it moved with the grace of a ballerina wearing stars for its only adornment. It thought in a way mysterious to this realm yet it sought the matter to seal eternity. On its quest for a most common dream fully aware of what was written. Upon a blue world it became just like them to sit in wait of what had been foretold. A strange miracle shared by another born to a race so unfamiliar. There on the corner of a coffee shop contact and an eternal journey to pursue. Fatal to the flesh foreign to the visitor’s to save her it was to take her away. Energy never created and not to vanish it took her in and made her part of it. Now they travel an unlikely odyssey without reason only true to the cosmos.
It might be terror beneath the fainted masks for those mobs in search of another moment. Perhaps they grin in mockery below makeshift bullet proof suits. I wonder if they cry within the flesh as they race to another decaying quest. What suffering lies inside shrunken entrails where hearts float without anchorage. Multitudes wander lost in their cities bumping into invisible walls. Their faces pale as if yet departed bluish veins scar sunken cheeks. Corpses before they know their fates so futile the daily chores. Thin as tulle the cloth dissipates upon the same specter of death.
Looking for parts to upgrade old chassis hand in hand they stroll in search of a miracle. A crow recites the song of his forefathers perched on the trusted rust of yesteryear. Strange lovers alien to prettier days they stare at a would-be sun beyond the storm. Wearing patches of ongoing hopes they dream worn out bones unwillingly playing a melody. Like the old Model T they once drove to the ocean they fancy a renewal promised on futuristic billboards. New limbs, a little used perhaps, but never broken organs made for the universal soldier. Their shoulders touch to the melting spot grown like conjoined Siamese legends. They still imagine the sunset of their parents when still sitting on the porch of endless possibilities. Hand in hand, they stumble between the rows of cadavers pressing upon their path into a thicker darkness. No hearts to be found here, nor any new fantasies just the eerie sounds of agonizing carcasses. Not a word is said between those two legends their lives finished under a reddish realm. One more step and it is done as if they had never been a weak aura remains of those ancient silhouettes. Soon others will follow the road already taken enticed by the gentle pull a forgotten old couple.
The Handle Upon a Gate
Shaken in his core by a strange sight sizing the childish shapes all around he stared at the handle upon a door. No longer was it time to kick a can running without aim to the next playground the moment for courage had come at last. Fallen to dreams in the shape of a boy now he was to become another warrior if only he could march forward. Shedding the flake of a queen’s chrysalis it was his turn to walk through the gate his hand upon the rusty lock. He trembled as he rose a man pushed by a presence so constant to pass the sill finally to enter another realm.
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.