Little Evil
Hummingbirds were the least
of your problems. Went to live there
for the quiet. Found gravel,
a hound's invisible bark. Redbreast,
mockingbird, magpie. Even the gnats
sang. The pine thick with them.
What a wretch you have become,
slack as a city postman's empty sack.
And then the dark things down
the hill Luther told you to mind out for.
Never know what comes up at night
and how. His twin brother gone
hunting and gone for good.
The Bible tells you so, that greed
will take you. Love the little ones,
moth-like in their breathless cots.
Gargoyle
All the men you have married.
One each year like the flu.
The first, in the blackbird forest.
Couldn't tell birch from pine, leaf
from needle. Like drinking
the house wine in a Chinese restaurant.
Lovely posture though. The second,
little black gods followed him
to the check out line. Mistook
backwash for love. The third,
impaired in thought like the first two.
But touching in a milk sick way.
As imaginative as Ohio. And you,
monster of self-pity, you with
your hollow stone mouth.
Bio Note
Meg Tyler was raised in
Kentucky and now lives in Cambridge Massachusetts. She has
published in Agni and Kenyon Review.
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Meg
Tyler
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