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Art Poetry Prose Photos Books&... Links Archives About Home

Ways of Moving Past a Cornfield

For years I walked past a cornfield,
green ears one month,
stubble the next,
a few crows bobbing,
grasshoppers scraping their song.
My skin listened.

And then
smoke, acrid smoke
crossed my path,
broke my indifference.
Where stubble had been,
a pond thick as tar
was boiling with crocodiles,

huge heads rearing over
the edge of the bowl,
swiveling barbarous eyes;
skin bumps glisten?

I move into a run,

see their heavy flesh moving,
ready for mine,
turn my head once
making sure of their presence

(boiling with crocodiles)

Drops slide down my cheeks,
not rain, not crocodile tears ?
my own eyes filling,
flowing with salt.

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Crablady

Our lady
of the hard shell,
soft butter,
firm flesh,

trailer lady
with salty legs,
eyes on the prowl.

Arthropod lady.
Scarlet lady
in the soup.

Better blue,
sea-cooled
and scuttling,

lady.

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Taunting an Octopus, 99% Water

With your arms crushing my flesh,
I change into thousand-branched kelp,

oh, your rage as I change
to green Ms. Houdini.

Swaying in front of your den, I invade
with my thousand-voiced song,

singing to you, you gelatinous beast
with a notable absence of ears.

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Rochelle Cashdan moved to Guanajuato, Mexico ten years ago from Portland, Oregon. She has published short fiction and poetry in the United States and, working with translators, in Mexico.. Rochelle is currently enrolled in a scriptwriting workshop trying to turn one of her stories into a play. She belongs to PEN, the international human rights organization for writers.

email: rcashdan@yahoo.com

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