Wayne H. W. Wolfson

The Creatures

    A rusted metal halo held in place by a single bolt which protruded from the back of her collar.
    Girl of my dreams, someone’s.
    Lips redder than they could ever be in real life. A madding blush. It got me. Lips which pulled at the flesh as they were intended to.
    Lips which tug at the heart and conscience.
    Whichever is easier to forget makes the night cheaper.
    Either way, it is all on me.
    As we kissed my fingertips brushed the bolt. The bolt pinned the halo down, butterfly to cigar box.
    The bolt.
    It made for a certain lack of motion and I was glad.
    In this enforced stillness, evidence of all that is here.

Lagoon Tide Moan

    Annabelle.
    Without ritual, without ritual. It was hot. Again and again despite the month. The days of the week should be renamed to better suit their meaning and purpose. Day of Signs, Day of Exile, Day of Purpose . . .
    I think it started on Day of Signs.
    I was taking a walk. On the side of the road two balloons joined by a blue ribbon.
    She had always worn a blue ribbon in her hair.
    Annabelle.
    If she was with someone it would be tied around the door knob. A bow with sinister implications.
    The balloons, props for a party no one was going to. The traffic wind would blow them in a slow circle, but weighed down by the ribbon and lack of purpose they weren’t going anywhere.
    I got home. The clarinet needed a new reed, the left-overs had gone bad.
    I suddenly felt very tired.
    Eyes closed, it wasn’t long before pictures formed. I was lowered into the scene by a long, frayed blue ribbon.
    There was a moment of panic as I was left to dangle for what seemed like an eternity. With a jerk I was in motion again.
    I was clothed, but felt naked as only the soul can.
    I had my suspicions. And wandering around I became sure, I knew.

    
    Death.
    This was it. It wasn’t an act(ion) or a personification. Death was merely a place, this place. Covered in snow, lit up under an indifferent moon.
    No one was around.
    All the lines of the snow drifts looked like bodies.
    There were houses too. Empty windows like gapped teeth, a few were lit up in a pale blue that conveyed cold and fatigue. Call it a type of sleep.
    At first I was scared but with all my wandering around, time had passed.
    It wasn’t my time.
    I had made it into the next name, Day of Purpose.
    All my friends are women. Each one becomes a burn-ing kiss, it’s not a matter of what I wanted.
    There’s a Heron who hides in the grass to eat. Some-times on my walks I see him. Annabelle.
    It’s not my time.
    I wake up drenched in sweat.
    I’m not well.

Wayne H. W. Wolfson has published widely, including in Word Riot, The Kit-Kat Review, Poetry Motel, Hobart and Winamop (UK). Recently he collaborated with Boston-based composer/producer Grenadier on a CD of music, sound-scapes, and spoken word, called The Last Martini. He lives in Northern California.