Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

K.L. Monahan

After Black Forest Cake, an Abortion,
   and a Cup Of Coffee

It was Hansel and Gretel's step-second only mother
who couldn't see through trees. She sent the squirmy
and rotten (yet alive) on an errand.
Cupping her breasts, pouting
oh, oh, what about me. Me!

A boy, oh-so clever, pissed breadcrumbs
from there to here. His sister, a greedy
twit, ate the crumbs and grumbled, gone

before my belly swelled. Oh!

Colorful sprinkles on candied lips
decorated the sugar-bread witch.
Plump hips, long nails dipped
in honey. She motioned -- come

She, at least, invited them to enter,
a type of pre-heat, if you will, a rehearsal,
songs about something like

run, run, as fast as you can, or,
ding dong the witch. Ah, hell,
the story comes, the story goes.

While playing bridge on a future day,
the mother, a witch and the second bitch
nibble ginger cookies and sigh sigh sigh.

If only we could see through trees. Oh!

Off With Her Head!

His foot sends the come --
hither, uncomely, to bleach
her hair and put on makeup
for a new lover;
a new bed, outside
life waits for her.

She's Alice
and Alice doesn't sing.

She'd rather chase rabbits than time.
A tea party if you will,
she won't, don't ask.

The Cheshire cat --
her front,
her back; a mirror
of very unbirthdays.

She breathes in her sleep,
She sleeps when she breathes.
It's not the same thing.

I should say what I mean.

She's a cardboard queen
who reads her own poetry
then swoons.

She could walk away and away
and surely
she'd be somewhere.

She could fall
and fall
for two days wrong,
strong as eggshell
bumped and shattered,
pre-splattered, well humped
and believe her-me,
horses do not have hands.

Then again, sure, why not?
Missing pieces, reserved spots,
even donuts have holes
and they're sweet.

With time she could be two miles high
and the lowing of cows would take
the place of mock turtle sobs
and all would be long ago
and this day all but forgotten. Come,

her head's free at last.

Do Not Expect To Like This Poem

It will not cook pasta or offer tea. Will
not fit warm slippers in its mouth. Never
run a hot sudsy bath, ever, for any reason
light the porch at night or
smoke a cherry vanilla pipe or fight
for you --            it will never
                    be grateful.

Do not expect a gift from it. This
poem does not like you.

©2006 by K.L. Monahan

K.L. Monahan is a Texan. Her poetry has appeared in VLQ, The Rose and Thorn, Poetryz, Poems Niederngasse, Kenoma, Mythic Delirium, and poetry is forthcoming in Wicked Alice, The Wheel, and Whispering Spirits. She has won several awards, one of which landed her a week in Paris.

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