Moonflower
In a wide valley
somewhere in Kyrgyzstan
flowers grow in the shape of a horse
Eagles swim in edelweiss skies
dark sails over nephrite tides
A fox the color of fire
agate hares seeking onyx shadows
cast by the Titans of Batken
A moon the color of the sun.
Iguanas
Regret doesn’t capture
the nuance of darkness
seeded in paradise
when I tossed ice cubes at iguanas in St. Johns
and one fell off the balcony
to its probable death
and though I was only twelve
and boys will be boys
even now, I kind of hate myself for it.
Wet Toga
When the days are short
paddocks sag into themselves
cold modesty, with frosty looks
dews and don’ts
gumboots caked in clay.
Parasols gather dust in the shed
suntan lotion crusting in its tube
next to the hair clip with strands from 2010
and spider eggs
like tumbleweed that caught a snag
devoid of untold legs
and eyes
inertia in a dreamless sleep.
Wet ground
strong wind
howling like a wolf
Sheep’s clothing
discarded
budding in tufts
embedded in burs
stuck
muddied along the fence.
The rain, in sheets
a wet toga
lashing the fallen
shaking the brambles
the crown of thorns
toppled
Gusts with gusto
conspiring to uproot the trees
sagging willows, a lean-to pine
the banks of the stream descending in clumps.
A magpie nest takes flight
joining the ghosts of dandelions
Last year’s fledgling
taken to the skies last spring.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press.
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