Discovering her Death

The old one could not pry himself from the corpse
so beautiful was her aura, so warm in the bluish ice.

Leaning upon the oaken stick a father once made
he still felt the pain of tiny explosions in his limbs.

So his muse would begin to decay within the shroud
perhaps even her scent might degenerate to a stench.

It had been forever since he first caressed her hips
confounded to one in the melting passion of harmony.

Now he contemplated his beloved and pondered
what he would make of the upcoming light to come.

Still she laid not unlike queens under the thick glass
of museums lost among the disrespectful crowds.

He may have cried the loss of his distant ecstasies
instead he chose to remain in the embrace of her death.

---

Pulse

The animal is hard at work pumping and flexing in the cage,
dispatching the language of passions to all parts.

The brain is lazy today, and maintains a stiff attitude,
closing the door to incoming messages.

Tension will rise until a fighter wins the bout;
Mr. Smith will just have to wait for the morrow to invent.

Nothing will be catalogued, sorted, edited, composed and corrected;
the world will be a mass of color, sounds, aromas, and sensations,

inform until the peace returns and the two rascals inside
come to terms and agree that for life to be, there too must be an art.

---

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.