Ambrosia

I was a loner before I knew the meaning of the word,

gravitating away from rather than toward, spraying

myself with mental OFF, deflecting people when

they took the time to notice repellent was in place.

Often they assumed I’d been splattered by mistake

and made allowances I never asked for, accepting all

in spite of everything. They crowded, they consoled.

They fed my appetite for time alone. Closeness was

painful, inches of air between us bruised like pitted

cherries grabbed too quickly, too tightly –

lone peculiar bleeding into homogeneous swirl.

©March 2019 Barbara Moore

Fearless #67

Monday Morning

Early commuters pass him by.

On the corner of Austin and 68th,

he waves his arms, exhales obscenities.

The regulars no longer notice.

Only children respond to him.

Fascinated, their faces light up.

He’s like a wind-up toy gone rogue,

a talking doll stuck on repeat.

©March 2019 Barbara Moore

Fearless #67

End of Summer Knight (for my father)

It is fairyland in the back yard

with bedtime closing in

We are chasing fireflies

Occasional laughter drifts over

from the lawn chairs by the house

where our folks sit sipping

vodka on the rocks or

ice-chilled cans of beer

There is no light but for fireflies

and the glow of cigarettes in the distance

The fireflies are filled with magic

We do not place them in jars

Not even in jam jars

with holes punched in the lids

We cup them in our hands

watch them flicker once

before setting them free

to fly away home

the way ladybugs do

I glance back at my father

He will be rising soon

beckoning us indoors

He flicks his cigarette ash

into the wispy night air

This too seems an act of magic

because it is my father who is doing the flicking

©2012 Barbara Moore

The Montucky Review