by Grace Andreacchi

Alia, the Beautiful
     a poem in three parts

1.  Torn Apart

the sky is torn
apart the stars
lie scattered
upon the dead ground
a handful of frost flowers
wrapped in clothing and
plastic bags
we gathered her up
in horror before the
dogs ate her
seedpod lighter
than light in our hands
called her Alia
‘the Beautiful’
brought teddy bears
to mark the place
now plush sentinels stare
with shoe button eyes at eternity
her mother is likely
to require medical attention

2.  Light

You bring good news
pale solemn angel
that halo round your head
is real
parents on plastic chairs
creak lean in and photograph
intensely
listen intensely
unto you is born this day
in the city of Bolton
a newborn child
alive in a pool of light
a lamp inside a glass
a glass like a star
a star like a felled flower
light upon light

3.  Smoke

the dogs snuffling hot
breath on my face

teeth begin to tear
I awake screaming

I have taken your place
under the black leaves

under the sea of darkness
wave upon wave of smoke

the Lord of Mercy
will pardon me

my tears are flowing streams
that water your heaven

come now, daughter
on the feathers of a bird

by Adrian C. Louis

Moth-shaped leaves bang
again & again against
the basement window.
Snow-filled winds curse
against my rented house
at forty miles per hour.
I’m plump, nude, & waiting
for the washing machine
to finish its mad dance.
I live alone & haunt
myself with lies about
forgotten flesh while
dormant desires feast on
my increasing forgetfulness.
If the true God manifested
in this Minnesota basement,
I’d mince about & wink,
but if Satan popped up
I’d sell my tight ass
without blinking for
just a few more years.
Just a few more
years with you.

by Adrian C. Louis

I flapped my wings, hoping
to rise & not take a nosedive.
I was old & grieving but still
driven by the need for nooky.
I tried to tell her it was bad
karma, not cancer eating
out the marrow of my soul
& that cause & effect made
screech songs whistle down
my pipe bones & cease all
sweetness of any conjured
summer’s wind.  Hey, I was
grieving & so far from home
& needed a heart or a hearty
hump & got neither, got
told I was too old for her.

In this dry dying
of American night,
an old eagle fell when
it flew past her house.
If you venture her street,
please don’t tread upon
my fine, feathered corpse.

by Adrian C. Louis 

I did not need
the cooter of Eve.
I only wanted
His magical love &
His dribbling, dark gifts.
Oh my God, were you
not the knower & mower
of all blue fields
of fictional flesh?
Were you not the clean
& dirty sheets of my bed?
God.  I only wanted your love,
your snaky eyes & exquisite fangs,
the black knowledge of your venom.