My Time Machine is Shaped Like a Shower

When I grow weary I pry open those translucent sheets
step over the great white gate
and ground my flat feet on that plain plastic
that doesn’t judge doesn’t speak
simply listens to the hollow sound of my breathing
and participates with my love of the rain

I creak down and lie my back to the tile wall
looking like a peaceful corpse my hair soggy
stuck on my skin comfortably damp
and there in a huddle watching my tiny waterfall
I’m grasped by a watery hug
and a stable moment stuck on rewind

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Monkey Say, Monkey Do

Why

does the
monkey
ask the
fish
to climb
the
tree?
To
complain
when it
can’t.

Wolf’s Clothing

Old hags tell their uncaring listeners
tales of a lurking beast
that army green leaves harbor
from the leaking lights of twilight.

She takes long, lazy strides as she hunts in the meadow,
step by step, her stilettos stab the soft ground,
red as her hood, red as the blood in her veins,
sharper than any knife, but sharp as her teeth.

Her long, lazy smile gleams as she stares down her prey.
With the glinting moonlight seized by her fangs,
she forms a blade of pure night, to sever the bare, innocent

stem of a white primrose to share with her friend, the wolf.

Helen Curran