Sour Mittens

It is wintertime and we walk into the candy store with our snow encrusted mittens in search of sour candies, wax lips and mustaches.

I play behind the mounds of snow remains,
at the top with icicle stuck to my palm.
Another snowplow passes and I’m and hit by the spray.

At that very moment, Randy slid down a hill and under the wheels of a passing car.
I was too young to know about real tears.
I still don't know about them actually.

That night, I  drifted off to sleep and took flight over the electrical wires, streetlights beneath my feet.
The tree tops narrowed by my waist as I glided over the geography of my little town.

White winds swept round our houses and the smell of sour mittens permeated the air as theywere  removed from the silvery,  radiator.

© -Sonja J Phinney (10-Dec-2006)

Spent

Hollow clouds hang,

plaster and paint

These people have coins on their eyes.


Deerskined scouts with bandanas, scourging.


It was found round the center cut,

Dark and flaring.

The tide winds round the naked ankle of a summer’s day.

Roots are harvested by a man with big hands.

How heavy is the sky?

Intermit, stand still

and still the meadow’s whisper.


The hum is in the beginning.

A Midget and tall man standing

A symbol of torture hung round his

neck..

speaking of witnesses.

-SJP 9-9-03