Poems
by Josh Pearce




Richard Sandler                        


Without


Isn't it enough


(without believing there

are fairies at the bottom,

said Adams


without thinking that the

flowers will talk to you,

Alice asked


the strawman said, without

expecting trees to throw apples,


without needing a God

to walk it alongside

you, asked Adam)


to enjoy a garden?



















Queen of Blades

 

 

takes a full

month

to finish her fan

dance

 

fourteen days to unfold

its pleats

into a white round disc

 

fourteen more days

to hide it away again

 

don't be fooled

by her coyness

for she is

the Queen of Blades

 

and her crescent knives

flash out in the soft

light

 

to carve away

entire coastlines.

 

she is poison

to the men

who pull off their helmets

 

and fall to their knees

 

to kiss her

powdered

face on the far

 

side of that mask.












Frk. Holm, Childhood Home                                       











The Attic

 

 

A telegraph wire

runs through your skull,

a steel cogweb

 

made of moving-picture

memories and

phonographic conversations

with mechanical

talking

dolls

 

and other Edisonian

contraptions.

 

The hum of pneumatics

(the tickerchatter

of teeth)

dimly heard in the attic

 

where are stockpiled

careful hordes of lightbulbs,

some dusty,

or cracked,

some blacked,

others freshly acquired

and gleaming.

 

It is a crime to die

with money to your name

but a sin to die

with thoughts in your head

unspoken.











Josh Pearce is twenty-six. His writing has been featured in Analog, Asimov's, and Andromeda Spaceways. Find him on Twitter: @fictionaljosh or at fictionaljosh.com



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