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Jacob Bearer

Margret's Prayer

Widow Margret told her beads
on her husband's creaky porch
over 5 O'clock Coffee each morning.

That black and white photograph
of her and her husband, peered
at her from the lamp stand.

The Welcome mat outside, unworn
and the new green cushion next to her
stared at the maid in the rocker.

The string of soft beads,
let slip from her fingers,
laid down on the shag carpet.

A twitch sprouted above her eye,
below the brown penciled eyebrow;
for the first time Margret listened…

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Dear Drs. Fisher & Buigues

(St. Petersburg,2008 June 4)

Your fanged sterile gloves,
and snarling scrubs, tear into me
like the yellow teeth
of Novyy Port huskies.

(My leather epidermis might be
the only peace treaty
able to unite America and France,
miles from our homes.)

My sour flesh yearns for Yuribey,
for my mothers creamy milk,
for the Pleistocene days -
for the life you'll never see;
when mom inhaled&exhaled,
and blanketed me in her grey coat.

With every calculation and sketch,

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