STORY OF THE MOON and SOLIS DIES by Kelle Groom • Cleaver Magazine
TWO POEMS by Kelle Groom Story of the Moon He held out both arms like someone innocent being arrested, showed me the long vein for the black panther he’d wanted, something Vietnam vets got, tracing his finger along where the panther would go if there was one. When it rained we went to Pakistan with pillows soft as cats, something killed. A boy carried scalding milk in a giant saucer pan, the coffee gone or cold, a girl throwing flour. A style of font was invented in the sixteenth century—does Claude Garamond feel the pretty serifs? What about the white house in trees? I’m not happy with smithereens, an Irish word, smidirin. We’ve been covered by sea dozens of times. The base of despair is speed, but acid brought all the animals in the house together, sleeping on the floor. I’ve already seen you here trying to live modestly, the … chop! chop! read more!