Reason Breeds Insanity

Cherry Tomatoes
by Sandra Beasley

Little bastards of vine.
Little demons by the pint.
Red eggs that never hatch,
just collapse and rot. When

my mom told me to gather
their grubby bodies
into my skirt, I’d cry. You
and your father, she’d chide—

the way, each time I kicked
and wailed against sailing,
my dad shook his head, said
You and your mother.

Now, a city girl, I ease one
loose from its siblings,
from its clear plastic coffin,
place it on my tongue.

Just to try. The smooth
surface resists, resists,
and erupts in my mouth:
seeds, juice, acid, blood

of a perfect household.
The way, when I finally
went sailing, my stomach
was rocked from inside

out. Little boat, big sea.
Handful of skinned sunsets.

Green Grapes

Little eyeballs
Tiny membrane bound fruits
Seed-bearing orbs

Father’s Day
by James Tate

My daughter has lived overseas for a number
of years now. She married into royalty, and they
won’t let her communicate with any of her family or
friends. She lives on birdseed and a few sips
of water. She dreams of me constantly. Her husband,
the Prince, whips her when he catches her dreaming.
Fierce guard dogs won’t let her out of their sight.
I hired a detective, but he was killed trying to
rescue her. I have written hundreds of letters
to the State Department. They have written back
saying that they are aware of the situation. I
never saw her dance. I was always at some
convention. I never saw her sing. I was always
working late. I called her My Princess, to make
up for my shortcomings, and she never forgave me.
Birdseed was her middle name.

My Father’s Daughter

Forever known as my father’s daughter—
so much less than royalty. How do we
communicate? In tiny sips spilled
from chapped lips and dreams
shared but never realized.

Wind whips my hair and skin
and guards drop when winter stops.
Would be killed birds
rescued by you
and written by me with bad pen
into a new situation.

They dance, you dance, we dance
and break convention. You never called
me Princess, but you always forgave, and
gave birdseed.

Compulsively Allergic to the Truth
by Jeffrey McDaniel

I’m sorry I was late.
I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.
I’m sorry I was late.
I was on my way
when I felt a plot
thickening in my arm.
I have a fear of heights.
Luckily the Earth
is on the second floor
of the universe.
I am not the egg man.
I am the owl
who just witnessed
another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.
I am your father
shaking his head
at the thought of you.
I am his words dissolving
in your mind like footprints
in a rainstorm.
I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives
to the bull inside you.
I am decorating
your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots
of all the people
who’ve gotten lost
in your corridors.

What Is in the Closet?

No less than five zip-up or pocketed hoodies.
Two L.L. Bean flannels.
Dress pants, dress shirts,
Several long and one short skirt.
Sweaters folded and stacked on shelves,
Too many shoes to count down below.

Magazines in all shapes and sizes:
Christian Century
Skin and Ink
National Geographic
New York Times Book Review
and Time.

School back packs and bags.
Back pack for hiking that never has hiked.
Canoe camping dry bags.
Purses: never used.

Photos in boxes.
An old Mac Plus.
A guitar that won’t stay tuned.
And a naked light bulb.

Several skeletons.
Friends.