Drawing by Judith Wolfe

BARRY SPACKS /

Three Poems



      The Lions on TV

      While lovers sleep by their billions in heaven
      ("In heaven there is no marrying")
      the lions are mating on TV.

      Snarl of the female, swipe of her claw,
      great-headed male returning, remounting...
      tawny lions at body-play.

      We watch them, stirred as we recall
      how last we lioned shamelessly.
      Lost to the pulse of their urgency

      the lions are mating on TV.


      She Wants Him Home

      She'd buy him the boat he made his wish for,
      paying the loan over years from her salary,
      but no, he doesn't want it, or rather
      doesn't want her (the boat, could it come
      freely afloat, is another matter).

      She frightens him, her voice flushed with ardor.
      They'll "get some counseling, work it out."
      She phones him daily. He taps the air,
      asks her please could this wait till later?
      "See, I'm really busy now."

      She wants him home, she misses him.
      Pained, as cold as he's ever been,
      he thinks, "Oh God! -- for God's sake, woman,
      this is too awful -- grab up something...
      please, please, cover yourself!"


Prospector

No longer panning for fame or sniffing
for traces of joy you take up your fate
and press your face into earth for entrance
easing within with miles of shist
to worm through lifetimes clearing the channel
approaching the iron-mountain-core
of the meltdown's over-dazzle no job
for a seeker in a hurry this digging
in seven-point stillness for light


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