Visiting the Widow

I gathered my ferns in my arms and carried them to the widow
She was blind but when she felt my face and heard my voice she knew it was me
Take these ferns and put them by the window, I said
The widow ran her fingers up and down the spore-flecked fronds
Oh it has been a long time, the widow said, her eyes filling with tears
I am ashamed to have forgotten about ferns

Who Stole my Moon?

Who stole my moon?

I left it by the rocking chair on the patio

Now it’s gone

It was my own, small moon 

I used to hug its cool, spherical body

I used to pet it like it was some fat chinchilla

Who stole my moon?

I have a lot of speeding tickets

And not a lot of friends

My moon was the one who listened to me

When I was up at night, feeling bitter

I guess I will put up signs

Missing: Personal Moon

With a photo and a reward

What would I give to have that moon back?

Five hundred dollars, at least

Oh you, whoever stole my moon

Do you appreciate its contours?

Can you smell me on it?

It never smelled of itself

Only of my cologne.

If you, you who stole my moon

If you like my moon maybe you will like me too

Or maybe you will like my smell at least

I could give you five hundred dollars

Or we could go on a date

Imagine us snuggling in bed afterwards

Both of us spooning the moon

Do you like my smell?

Do you like smelling my moon?

It could never be fully yours—always mine

But we’d share it

We’d take it out to see eclipses

Which means we’d be seeing them together

Now that I think about it, I’d empty my bank account

To get that moon back

Except I have to set aside some money for the speeding tickets

So I don’t go to jail

Where they don’t allow moons at all.

There is Little Room for Nuance

There is little room for nuance, little room for nuance!

I tried to fit nuance in the room but there is little room for her

She is a beastie, a small beastie, and we will sacrifice her for friendship.

There is little room for nuance, little room for nuance!

She is drinking too much wine and spouting nonsense

She is non-partisan, then partisan, then philosophical, then anti-philosophical

Her coat is an unappealing shade of gray

We have to keep shifting under her gaze, never quite settling into the sofa

She is a beastie, a small beastie, and we will sacrifice her for friendship.

There is little room for nuance, little room for nuance!

While stirring soup, she makes us question our gender roles

We cannot even open a can of beans without wondering who made the beans

Our politics are in tatters

We can’t make love without pondering socially conditioned power dynamics and potential archetypes activated by the presence of a phallus

She is a beastie, a small beastie, and she lives in the attic and cannot be slain.

Pool of Small Dogs

There are a million small dogs in this pool.

I cannot get in the pool because of the million small dogs.

“Hey, get in,” says the lifeguard

“You can do lots of things in the pool except swim.

For example, you can pet the small dogs.”

I stand there in my bathing trunks

Goggles on, looking at the yapping, heaving mess of fur.

“You mean...I...should just jump in?”

The lifeguard says: “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I jump, and land on piles of claw and teeth and paw and fur

I sneeze. Someone paws at my swim trunks. My swim trunks are off.

I am naked in this pool of small dogs.

“Pet the dogs!” cries the lifeguard

But stressed, bloodied, nude-- I crawl my way

To the ladder to get out of the pool

“You braved it!” smiles the lifeguard, gap-toothed

“Sorry about that Dachshund.

Wanna join me for a drink?”

You might be surprised to learn

I later married that lifeguard

You might be surprised to learn

Small Dog Pools took off

We just had to de-claw the dogs

Grind their teeth down

Treat for fleas

Many people prefer the sensation of fur

To that of water

It’s warm

Plus you get--

the wet nose

the quick lick of the tongue

And we took out that pervie Dachshund

Who always stole people’s swim trunks

No one wants to feel so vulnerable

So egregiously exposed 

Witch and Bellybutton

Witch and bellybutton

Were walking through the trees

Witch went slow and haggard

Button moved with ease

“It’s been some time since walking,”

The witch said to the button

“In my old age, I don’t get out

I’ve really been a shut-in.”

“You’ll soon regain the hang of it,”

The button said to witch

But just as he could say it

She fell into a ditch!

“Oh, help me, bellybutton!”

The feeble sorc’ress cried

The bellybutton, small but brave,

Grabbed a branch and tried

The witch grabbed on; the button pulled

But this was no small hustle

For witch weighed 80 kilos

And button had no muscle

“I’m just too weak,” he finally said

“I can’t lift up your weight.

Quick, change me into something else

Before it grows too late.”

The witch grew pale and silent

And finally she cried

“I haven’t cast a spell,” she said

“Since I was thirty-five.”

“I have a feeling,” Button said

“That now’s the time to practice!”

“Zamboony!” Witchy said, which turned

The button to a cactus.

“Well, shit,” the cactus grunted

“I can never help you now.

I’m a spiky hunk of cellulose

Whose arms can’t reach the bough.”

“I should’ve practiced,” Witchy moaned

“Oh, stupid witch is me!

I’d stopped performing spells

And just watched sitcoms on T.V.”

“You’ve ruined it for both of us,”

The bellybutton said

“We’re stuck here, and in just some days

We’ll certainly be dead.”

The witch lived 29 more days

And perished on day 30

But cactus lived a hundred years

‘Cause succulents are sturdy.

The moral of the tale, of course

Is don’t get out of practice

And be grateful your umbilicus

Looks nothing like a cactus.