When Uncle Robert's Commodore broke down
the final time, he took a match, some fuel,
and burned it up for good, ten k's from town.
He called it in as stolen (bloody fool)
then hitched to town, but left the keys inside.
He got two years, suspended. When the Beak
adjourned the court, some laughed. I could have cried.
Bob did it tough. He lived from day to week,
stacked shelves at Coles, and worked the gate for free
on Sundays at the track, such was his lot.
He died last year; the job was left to me
to sort through all his stuff and find a spot
to scatter Bob's remains. That wasn't hard:
The burned-out shell was right there in his yard.
by Christopher Hanson
Christopher Hanson lives in New South Wales, Australia, with his wife
three year old daughter. He is an English teacher and a Beatlemaniac.
poetry has appeared in Worm, The Shit Creek Review, The Loch Raven
and each issue of 14 by 14 to date.
One night a mother had an awful dream:
She found herself above her daughter's bed,
the girl asleep, so soft, so sweet, it seemed
her mother should just eat her up, and then
she did. She fell upon her tiny toes.
She gnawed away her jelly lips and cheeks.
She sucked her eyeballs and her supple bones,
and still the mother's craving would not cease.
The daughter also had a dream that night:
Her mouth was pulling at her mother's breast,
whose milk could not outlast her appetite,
so she chewed through her mother's chest.
She ate her heart then nestled in its place,
napping before she started on the face.
by Stephen S. Power
Poems by Stephen S. Power have appeared most recently in Deronda, Descant, Exit 13, Free Lunch, Lyric and Raintown Review. He lives in New Jersey.