Late Summer after a Panic Attack
BEASTS by Amanda Jernigan
In my kind world the dead were out of range
And I could not forgive the sad or strange
In beast or man.
– Richard Wilbur
Her told me of the Cape Town walkup where
he lived till he was eight; the years were spent there,
he claims, his best,
although he’s range his wooden beasts, some nights,
along the windowsill to watch the fights
outside. At last,
presumably, his folks were reconciled
to moving – this no place to raise a child –
and made to flee.
The family came to Canada, where not
much happens for a lion or an ocelot
or boy to see.
Where I grew up, and entertained myself
with fairy tales from which I’d struck the wolf.
Though now, I found,
I summon wolf and lion, woman, Lord
knows what, and bid that wooden horde
to laager round.
The Painting After Lunch – By Clarence Major
It wasn’t working. Didn’t look back. Needed something else. So
I went out. After lunch I saw it in a different light, like a thing
emerging from behind a fever bush, something reaching the
senses with the smell of seaweed boiling, and as visible as yellow
snowdrops on black earth. Tasted it too, on the tongue Jamaica
pepper. To the touch, a velvet flower. Dragging and scumming, I
gave myself to it stroke after stroke. It kept coming in bits and fits,
fragments and snags. I even heard it singing but in the wrong key
like a deranged bird in wild cherries, having the time of its life.
Reflective writing prompt: Write about a time it wasn’t working for you or what you needed to do to be inspired