Maxwell’s Poetry Corner
By Maxwell Redder
Horns
Horns of hartebeest inspiring the drawn heart
(tip as spine and curves as breasts)
were removed to use as tools.
One: a drill plunged and spun through baked dirt,
exploding a hole of rusty powder
when yanked like cork of wine.
Two: a dagger feather wrapped with dressed hide,
flashing its sharply chiseled and fat polished
tip in the carnivorous sun, warning.
Naked skull, the beast skeleton looked more human.
Kneeling down to thank the dead; a heart
drawn where horns should be.
Plague
Lusciousness lingering and a fly
whizzes past testing scrumptious tufts of air
Willis and Craig are digging graves
by the chain-link for children who’ve turned green
Root vegetables festering beneath churned
clumps of dirt stay safe
Harrowing starlight blocked by burning clothes
grapples with the sharp fire’s light
Willis and Craig are filling graves
by the chain-link turning naked children brown
Frog throats projecting a grievous concerto
for mystified mothers caressing reason
Permanent death scent caramelizing
in morning dew droplets drooping trampled grasses
Velvet textured tongues slicking terrified
sweat from exhausted lip trembles
Willis and Craig are agreeing by the graves
burning massing bodies is best next batch
The Magician
Singled out among the masses
I was asked to come on stage
when the magician asked:
is anyone American?
Step inside this cage.
I will make him vanish
after covering and removing
this sheet from the bars.
Loudly howling the elongated
magic words must have prevented
the crowd from hearing the trap-
door snap downward.
Beneath was a slide which caught
my butt first. It was slightly padded
making the ride quite comfortable,
but, what a shock, a surprise
to find a small man at the end
with a moustache and smoking
a cigar. You must be the American.
My job is waiting for you to fall.
He guided me through the entrails
of the basement, busted and cracked
up from years of use. We rose
slowly on the narrows steps,
me in front, him in back like a cop
leading a pickup to the backseat.
Here’s fifty bucks. I’ll take you
to the bar, but not back to your seat.
