By Fabrice Poussin
Mardi-Gras in April extending those days of glee when revelers saunter the avenues seeking another merry melody. Yet they lack the luster of old hiding in shame behind blue fabric they wish they might breathe inhale forgiveness in the shadows. Stumbling in fear of the unseen they stare at their kin on the other side smiles erased by the feeble mesh pleas fleeting within their breasts. Pastels will quickly fade in the rain sad reminders of brighter omens ghosts soon to outnumber the crowds amid clamors echoing into the void.
Homeless in 2031
What a hardship it may be to carry those wrinkles to the unavoidable hyper store delaying the age of walking devices to assist with steel when the flesh fails. Practice makes perfect when one goes alone decades with the leather gloves deep in worn out jean pockets a frown made for an ancient bronze. She sees the masses passing in a blur for they have not yet learned the art of a slow dance to prepare for the ultimate waltz with the stars to them the quest for processed lives matters most. Hands on an old quilt, repository of dynasties she still sits on the front porch as the paint peels and flies with the breeze no one greets her in this deserted land. Her thoughts are secret now, her eyes fixed onto a miracle only she can discern beyond the thinning envelope of her past there seems to be little to anchor this old soul. Her suitcases are packed, piled in the dark corridor her destination mysterious as it is certain she will leave little behind but a shell of a house carcass to be erased as if it had been built for ghosts.
If I had a Gun
If I had a gun it would have nine chambers one made of chocolate and another of caramel. If I had a weapon like that I would dip it in a white cream made of whipped butter and powdered sugar. If I owned a revolver it would sing with every shot a melody made in Heaven every night before I dream. If I hid an instrument of death in my bedroom I would devour it with strawberries and smile with every bite at that silly lady with a scythe. But you will find nothing of the sort in my humble abode unless of course you think of ice cream as a deadly nectar.
Looking for Something to Give
It is holiday season every day when you care from a distance or in the arms of a treasure. There is no dissing those grand souls thrown upon a quest to buy a token of pleasure. In rags they dream for a moment of a smile they will soon see on the lips of a child. It may be in a humble store where all costs a dollar where they discover the gift of a lifetime. Eager to say words they cannot find they will let the present speak of the affair. Perhaps it will be an embrace with a makeshift card made of newspaper clippings and colorful maps to the world. His eyes shining with the glow of a heart he means to deliver he knows he has little in his pocket but a handful of fancies.
Vanish the Dreams
Long haired behind the football intent on the move to win the game he was ready to run the gauntlet with that smile to take him so far. Simple goals to play with the coming years at home with an aging family no large screen to distract from the grandeur they were to achieve. Land galore surrounding this boy so slender in the evening breeze he could not see beyond his younger years now a horizon so distant, so full of promise. New machinery clamored his name herds sang a song to his future so gleeful he was to be alive it seemed spring was a constant companion. But now he sleeps with the ancestors those warm days cut down in the dead of winter by the careless attention of a neighbor who could never think even of a friend.
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.