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Sunday, July 22, 2012

Narcissus on His Face and The Sound of Months

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Beautiful youth, he neglected the why, and pines forever in a flower. "Who is he but you?" the doctor points out.  Sin with its ancient name.  Faces feel warm. We had thought we hated ourselves. That day, no. That one day, we liked what we saw.  It doubled.  Strangers.  They pass and penetrate our averted eyes. We're never the same.  If only we could work with our hands awhile. Paint an old table. Shuffle the cards. Lift the large mallet at the carnival. Hit that bell. Listen to the ring going away.





The Sound of Months

March. Shamrocks. All that luck. Young people crowded into a Mt. Adams bar, green-beering till the wee hours. Music so loud they could scream and never be heard. An observer said to himself, "It doesn't look like a mating dance."  He then walked out, sought refuge in a bead shop down the hill. When he opened the door and saw her, glass four-leaf clovers on strings clinked as if signaling.



Barbara Wuest has published poems in Wisconsin Academy Review, The Paris Review, Laurel Review, The Cape Rock, Cincinnati Poetry Review, CrossCurrents, Dogwood, Wind, Beloit Poetry Journal and others. She has a an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry)  from  University of California, Irvine and teaches at Cardinal Stritch University.