POETRY

Nightmare Men

My sister's breath shines moisture upon the blade
it quivers in anticipation.
If she should say just one more word,
but she is muted by fear and fear itself is her master.

She dreams of husbands, fathers, men of steel
slicing her face to ribbons.
Laughing at the irony of her tortured face
her stony tears hold no sounds and it angers them.
Quench their moods with shots of scotch,
now she'll never leave, for who would want a face like that?

Tears of blood shed by us, enough to fill a bathtub their
remains are swirls of red anger.
For there was a time when we were beautiful
before men ripped us apart.

Late at night
mothers, daughters, wives.
Sew the drunken men into their sheets
leave the gas on high on the stove and leave.
Toss the match watch
the men of steel melt to pathetic puddles.

N.V Bennett
Victoria, B.C.



When my Mind's on Other Things

I can't sense the dripping of
warm blood on thick carpets, I'm funny that way when
my mind's on other things.
It soaks up the room with atmosphere and I can't sense it,
the way blood smells, earthy, but it might be the dog or something else.

I should know, the carpet's turning all scarlet and I'll have to remember
to use the other cleaner, attend to it quickly, when I think of it.
The border of scarlet framed in that nice persian grey. My best colors,
I should try to remember to wear that for work someday.

I can't sense the moans, and the dishwasher's giving up the ghost, it's screaming in the kitchen.

I guess I'll have to break down and wash the damn knife by hand.


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