Chris Crittenden

Two Ghosts

look at us flow into each other
like wine drunk on itself,
full-bodied with faint delight
gone in a mutual sip.

look at us looking
through each other’s eyes,
sharing our mutual fingers,
as if the absence of saveable seconds
could be formed into a seed.

you made of my ribs, mine yours,
our pelvis a fulcrum.
hips wrapped, seesawing on a lost night,
defiant still against edicts of pain.

our togetherness a faint perch,
stuck somewhere
between toehold and substance.
in the bleed of a forgotten autumn,
we murmur-swirl side by side,
on an ersatz day.

Dead Cow

a crow struts like Groucho Marx
in a field spatted
with devil’s claw.

two jackrabbits
watch its pendulous onyx
from a lack of fence,

distrustful of mimes.

a flabby malodor
punishes nettle
trapped in its curls,

and the crow cries out,
hoarse and savage,
to surge in pace.

as the jackrabbits hover,
alarm in their wet
mahogany stares,

the crow pecks rough,
cracking the resistant slime
of the red-blossomed feast.

Chris lives 50 miles from the nearest traffic light and writes in a spruce forest. Moose can get ornery during the rut. Chris is an online teaching artist at the Poetry Coop, and he blogs as Owl Who Laughs.

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