qarrtsiluni

…bats
nested in the disobedience of your hair.
—Austin Hummel, “Mirror, Mirror”

Sonnets lurked in your contumacious hair,
crawling the stressed tresses of your plaits;
waved their frilled amphiboles everywhere.
Jointed, scuttling things: eight metered plates
in each thorax; six more abdominal,
abominable segments; an excessive
sum of twitching legs and feet; aggressive,
protruding jaws; and what seemed nominal-
ly like a tail,
…………………..but wasn’t. When I suggested
you get yourself de-versified and ana-pested,
that iamb-dip might more likely be effective
than anti-dandruff shampoo, your invective
became somewhat intemperate and catty.
I still prefer your previous hairstyle — batty.

by F. J. Bergmann

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The box, unlike its appalling
contents, did not depart.
They screeched ecstatically,
whizzed, thumped into windows
and ricocheted off the walls.
They inserted themselves
cleverly into crannies,
while the box clenched
its hellgrammite claws.

The box sat quietly
on its haunches; ugly
pupa enclosing a larva,
budding nymph, waiting
for its carapace to split open
and the damp, wrinkled imago
to emerge. Hope unfurled
her transparent promises
to beat against the wind.
Of course she didn’t stay.

When she comes to tea,
she balances precariously
on the edge of the lid,
while tiny hands wave,
squeak, and swear happily
from under the sofa.

Hope can’t visit long,
but she always says
Goodbye; I had a lovely
time. Thank you for having
me. The discarded box
answers in its creaking voice.

by F. J. Bergmann

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