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Poetry—Fabrice B. Poussin

Poussin teaches French and English at a university in Georgia, USA. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other publications worldwide. His collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published by Silver Bow in 2021 and 2022. 

My Rolls and I

My Rolls and I we have crossed the country

on broad tires and great meals

why not splurge when you can travel

in the plush seats of a British giant.

We found the 100-foot yacht anchored

in the Frisco Bay shining with silvery glances

the envy of all those foreign passers by

Americans are so rich and lucky they say.

It was to be a journey around the world

with captain, servants in white and blue

a virtuoso chef in his artist laboratory

not to forget the media room down below.

Stops in every port to tan by the Hilton

savor delicacies only available

in restaurants with limitless stars

and purchase proof of our passage in gold.

Obscure Waltz

Why do the rivers run black this dawn?

silver flows in slivers of shiny fluids

numb in the quietness of muffled thunder

it might be lava oozing from the deep.

Blades of grass too reflect the darkness

mirrors reaching for the cosmos like black steel

shards broken off the hopes of a burdened one

they dance a waltz with crystalline melodies.

Gifts to the heavens, images of distant stars

delicate petals of the ephemeral rose monochrome

membranes of infinite spaces between the realms

petals like clouds float into the stratosphere.

No peaks capped with gentle snows of virgin times

remain. Into the impenetrable ebony skies

summits disappear with just a few more glitters

as complete darkness envelops what once was her land.

One Million Years Ago Yesterday

A big girl now she recalls the first dress

purchased with money of babies sat

perfect for endless summers with boys

bare feet on sands so hot she cried.

Always willing arms protected her

when rains fell heavy onto the shore

lightning struck wild waves on the horizon

she begged for another day to come so bright.

Little stars crowd her memories as they fall

innumerable from distant worlds

she cannot assemble the fragments

of moments lost in a shapeless cosmos.

The large mirror tells a precious tale

as she stands in earnest by a jealous star

so little seems different for the aging child

woman of centuries and universal truths.

Tic toc tik tok

They live at the altar of their newest derision

rushing to the smart device and a spot in the sun

enthralled by their own image in cyberspace

centers of the only universe they care to know.

They live you see an incredible life

in the absence of thought or reflection

posing as if statues of the classics

Mona Lisas of a long gone renaissance.

Soon their charade will adorn the fragile walls

of binary fragments long enough until another

surges with a lower cut top and more for all to see

moving pathetic steps as if a grandiose dance.

Long ago the spirits vanished leaving souls devoid of humanity

now they roam the membranes of a strange galaxy

unable to find anchor in even the shallowest of grooves

upon lines of a story written on virtual parchment. 

Time clicks away at a faster pace

out of reach of these odd creatures

who know nothing of human existence

and seek fame in five seconds of an awkward dance.

Many like them live a life of make believe

empty shells in the flesh of little starlets

they smile and scream to be the ones everyone sees

only to return to the dust that never rose above the sewers.

True Believers

Sunday funnies are little compared to 

the actors so well-rehearsed of 

the long aisles to a dark altar.

The night before they drank on the gambling floor

hidden by neon colors and unlikely covers

home so late their eyelids still droop.

In suits fancier than on their wedding moments

meant to knock them dead on interview day

they seem strangers to themselves for an hour or so.

Mouthing words to century songs

their stomach scream for a break

soon lunch with temporary friends of the cross.

The dark armor and tie weigh heavy on the soul

as the summer dress is too tight on the breast

they cannot wait to shed what they call truth.

When the sun rises again, it will be an office

and memories of a sabbat well spent

while the giant screen screamed touchdown again.

For a moment they believed, and they swore

for another they almost were certain

that they gave the appearance of sincerity.

Shells for five days, hollow for the nights

sixty minutes of the week fixes all they claim

while corpses rot on the path to their redemption. 


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