AVERIL BONES

Delicious

It was the only tool I could find, 
so I spread out newspapers on my 
parquetry flooring, sat cross-legged 
with my back against the heater 
(it was winter, but Sydney style), 
and picked up the screw-driver. 

It was the only way I could be 
comfortable. And I knew, with secret smile, 
that it would be messy and Bohemian, 
decadent. So I poured the wine, 
savoured that slosh so particular to white, 
and lay my soft hands on a tight shell. 

She was sandy, and petulant, 
reluctant to permit my gross intrusion, 
but the screwdriver did its rough work, 
and the first oyster of two dozen was laid bare, 
more thrilling than a million pearls 
as it slipped down my pinked and eager gullet. 

copyright 2003 Averil Bones

WENDY L. HAMMOND

Abyss of Comprehension

edges draw me 
toward centered states 
where I spit words 
into bottomless pits, 
and understanding 
dives into the abyss 
for the thrill of constant 
falling 

echoes call reverberates, 
and silence knows 
its own slow retaliation 
has nothing to offer, 
has no reason to scream 
for the fear of the trip, 
the slip through slices 
of meaning 

and edges draw me, 
a magnetic sucking 
to know all possibilities 
of mind and matter, 
diagnose each clatter 
of thought, 
each un-vocalized 
demeanor 

paint the backdrop 
a shade deeper 
and watch above 
for the twinkle of answer 
as ageless, timeless 
pastures of wisdom 
float in the abyss 
of comprehension 

it is within flight 
and levitation 
when movement caresses 
the second hand, 
and books 
with missing covers 
knowingly 
read our faces

copyright 2003 Wendy L. Hammond