Let's lie down by the grate
near the sewer and try not to move,

we'll see if a river of waste
can be beautiful too.

Then let's go down to the sea by the rocks
and rip up slick seaweed for our hair

dead men will hail us-
               we can ask for directions.

Let's eat
oysters on the whole shell.

Let's get ripped.

Let's stop to think
                   and then just do it again.

Let's make milk
out of snow in the park,

the sun will start an argument
and then ask us to leave.

We can just drift on the swings
and toss up angel-hair pasta

how many strands
will stick to the sky?

Let's walk like rock stars
with power tools in our hands.

Let's go back
to 11:59 am

when you pulled my swing closer
and we were suspended, intertwined.

Matches

I am a monster, my arms are too long.
Mother is a monster too,

but a different kind.
She has greenish yellow fingers
sleeps all day instead of night.

Late afternoon she wakes
coffining
on the mouldy velvet sofa
she eats cigarettes
drinks amber fire
from a bottle
when dad gets home
her eyes go crazy
then she ignites.

I hate glass and velvet and smoke.

So I finally tell her
I did it. I did it with a stranger on an empty school bus.

She looks down to her fingers
quite surprised
they are still there.

Do you have any matches? she asks,
putting more fire into her mouth.

Diana Adams is an Alberta based writer, her fiction and poetry have appeared in Pagitica in Toronto, Jones Av., Pindeldyboz, and Literary Potpourri.


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 Diana

 Adams