ALIEN
Cromwell, it must be noted, could not recognize his limitations. There was a great deal of kindness, she recalled, in Montreal. Cuisine, per se, had grown tiresome. You knew that was coming, didn’t you? The lawns carpeted with dry leaves overnight. Mortal or moral? Mandrake or mandate? We often neglect to ask the river’s forgiveness. Newcomers did find the town a bit creepy. Was it found just in time? Seriously is a term applicable to dancing. It was Bonaparte who had Lafayette freed from an Austrian prison. Surely, one can seek satisfaction in Detroit. Yes, there is a list. And yes, your name is on it. From where we stood, the landscape may be described as alien.
ALWAYS
British colonial rule encroached on all seven continents. And yet the pensive individual is never lost in a crowd. Do we accuse Winograd of intruding on his subjects’ privacy? What to do when the iceman arrives. All things handled deserve the appropriate care. Closed doors are often wary of intruders. Closed doors know how to keep a secret. Nothing here for you, Vera calmly told the barbarian horde. The gas burner flared into flame & hissed steadily. Loot is Hindu: booty, French. Their conversation resonated with the sharp accents of an habitual quarrel. One slave ship put to sea from Bristol every nineteen days. Not theater, but theology. Not dormant, but dominant. Who are these sitting alongside me, alone in their grief? I am always at home, he boasted, wherever I find myself.
KNEES
Some critics deny there is anything new in American painting. Yet what is this voice that speaks within me? Auntie Grace, you know, required a good reason to wear black. The tragic undertones of ballroom dancing. In no time her ex’s possessions lay strewn about the rooftop. Yes, tomato paste, but not shredded. Anatomy or autonomy? Prostate or post-date? At Salme the unearthed graves contained more swords than men. Surely, there are many kinds of madness. The shifting jigsaw of shadows on the sidewalk. Bloody, but not like oranges. At times a plain vanilla will do. Antonia’s faint yet indelible presence. What I don’t know about traffic in Cairo. By now, the darkness had dropped to its knees.
Sid Gold is the author of five full-length collections of poetry. The most recent, Very Eyes (Poets’ Choice, ’23), also contains 10 full-color prints of his paintings in addition to his painting Circle Game on the cover. He is a two-time recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award for Poetry and in 2019 was voted among Baltimore’s Best Poets in the Baltimore Magazine Annual Reader’s Poll. His poems have appeared in reviews, journals and anthologies for more than forty years. A native New Yorker, he has lived in Hyattsville MD for a number of years.