Volume Four, Issue 2

David Estringel


Green is the taste of bitter rind that lingers on your fingertips,
cutting through the sweetness of icebox orange smiles
bursting on my tongue, lovingly fed,
conjuring the salty sting of solitude’s imminence,
as if a shade.

How dreaded the tic-toc of the clock—
rhythmic shower of dying heartbeats—
hanging, sourly, above us in white clusters,
promising much, offering little
but that which is within our fleshy grasps.
Before dawn breaks and you slip away—a shadow
fleeing the Eye of Day—
you reach backward, hand upon wanting hip, pulling me inward,
stopping time if but for a second longer.

O morning thief!
I am bound by your fragrant tethers
that permeate, infiltrate ‘the everything’ under my skin
through the hole in my chest that once held a beating heart,
long-since cast at the pink of your delicate arches.
My soul trembles as you turn and smile,
then walk away,
leaving behind your indentions and a tattered Lorca,
tossed afloat in the rising, orange currents of morning.

Still, I am drawn to the darkness of my corners,
where Death has found a home.
The purity of her black light defines, reveals all
within this drowned world of light and shadow.
There is no love without fear of absence,
no hope without doubt,
no fulfillment without the memory of Hunger’s dull stabs.
We savor and rejoice these fleeting moments—
all that is good under God’s blue heaven—
for in the end
all we are left with…all that is true…
is that cold taste of green.

Eating Pears on the Rooftop

Let us eat green pears—
at night on the rooftop
under burdened boughs of the old yew
and the moon’s pale glow.
Let us love
and laugh at myths and shadow-plays
born of sticks and stones
and celestial light—
the stuff of illusion
that pulls us far from the cold comfort
of home.
There, the close confines of our rooms lie, prepared,
untouched by the deceits of night and day--
and pure.
O, to be with you in the dark
(boundlessness within those walls)
behind thick curtains of rich brown and verdant green--
that glorious place of undiscerning Truth,
where glamours crumble to dust
(to dust).
To this
we say, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
and kiss the silver—sticky and sweet--
from each other’s lips,
each soft brush
a rap on the front door.

These poems were previously published in Cajun Mutt Press.

David Estringel: "I am a "2019 Best of the Net" and "2019 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year" nominee, whose work has been accepted and/or published by publications like Terror House Magazine, Expat Press, Soft Cartel, Agony Opera, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rigorous Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and The Bitchin' Kitsch."

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