by David Spicer
Elizabethan actress, and father, a centaur,
an Arctic ocean iceberg. This bloody
won’t do, my mother yelled, leaving him in an
lightning eyes, yellow and blue as an insane toucan.
Say something, anything, or I’ll make
you blow your cornet.
gentle beast-man, answered, Shut up,
hussy, I outearn
you every day of every year, you
blasphemous, bitchy crone.
painful birth, and after that night, I sang stories in a tenor
not to marry after witnessing truce after truce.
at eleven, never to see them again, nor to taste the nectar
love, but I won’t forget them or their mythic rancor.
David Spicer is a former medical journal proofreader. He has published poems in Santa Clara Review, Synaeresis, Chiron Review, Remington Review, unbroken, Third
Wednesday, Yellow Mama, CircleStreet, The Bookends Review,
The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Gargoyle, The Midnight Boutique, and
elsewhere. Nominated for a Best of the Net three times and a Pushcart once, he is the author of one full-length poetry collection, Everybody
Has a Story (St. Luke's Press) and six chapbooks, the latest of which is Tribe of Two (Seven CirclePress).
He lives in Memphis. His website is www.DavidSpicer76.com/HOME | Mysite
W. Jack Savage is a
retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of eight books including Imagination:
The Art of W. Jack Savage (wjacksavage.com). To date, more than fifty
of Jack’s short stories and over a thousand of his paintings and drawings have been
published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California.