The Land of Story-books, by Robert Louis Stevenson At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter’s camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...
Salmon, by Kim Addonizio In this shallow creek they flop and writhe forward as the dead float back toward them. Oh, I know what I should say: fierce burning in the body as her eggs burst free, milky cloud of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand on the bridge with my camera, frame the white froth of rapids where one arcs up for an instant in its final grace. But I have to go down among the rocks the glacier left and squat at the edge of the water where a stinking pile of them lies, where one crow balances and sinks its beak into a gelid eye. I have to study the small holes gouged into their skin, their useless gills, their gowns of black flies. I can’t make them sing. I want to, but all they do is open their mouths a little wider so the water pours in until I feel like I’m drowning. On the bridge the tour bus waits and someone waves, and calls down It’s time, and the current keeps lifting dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...