Inkblot

It’s the monster’s forest, they say. Deep within it, he lies sleepily protecting his domain. Many villagers have been killed trying to take the forest down for their advancements, and it is happening again. This time the villagers want a road to connect them to the newest village just beyond the forest. They should go around, but they will try and go through but will inevitably die.

An army of men gear up in rusted armor that hasn’t been used since the last time, their ancestors tried to enter the monsters forest. They march onward with pitchforks, broken swords, and some rope. (What they are going to do with rope, who knows? The monster will only snap it.) They continue to march towards the forest. The hill starts to shake as the monster’s face slowly rises over the forest and stares down the makeshift army. They make their demands, and the monster moves out of the woods and down the hill towards them. Fear taking hold of the villagers, they run back towards the village, their flight is cut short by a swift annihilating blow from the monster’s tail. The beast looks over to me, and I hear his voice inside my head.

“Do you want to try too?” He says exasperated.

“No, I’m content leaving you be.”

“Good.” the monster turns and settles deep into his forest to sleep until the next wave of progressive villagers come to the attack with the same rusted armor and broken swords.

Independence Day

Fireworks drown
out the stars,
while an old Ford pickup
waits packed and ready.

I stand gazing,
upon my home of
twenty-plus years,
thinking I would be more prepared.

Home becomes
the parent’s house,
and a strange place becomes home.

Though we can always
“go back home.”

It’s never the same,
our stuff doesn’t litter the corners,
our food isn’t in the fridge, and
our favorite mug isn’t in the cabinet,
waiting for morning coffee.

We still call it home,
for it’s littered with memories
of our past.

There are pencil marks on the wall
marking how much we had grown over the years.

Pictures of family get-togethers
and our achievements line the mantle.
Proving that we lived there,
handprints in the concrete steps
forever staking our claim on this home.

I turn to start a new chapter in my life,
looking forward to making a strange place home.
I always know that my heart will be here,
with the pencil marks, the mantle of photos,
and the little handprint on the steps with K.S. and ’95 beside it.

The fireworks drown out the stars,
as an old Ford pickup, drives away.

Kim Sealock
7-27-19

Taste of Green

The taste of green
is rainwater and dirt,
like that of a cucumber
fresh from the garden.

The taste of green
is crisp and refreshing,
like a salad in
the dog days of summer.

The taste of green
is sweet droplets of
kiwi juice running down
one’s chin.

The taste of green
is the bitter aftertaste
of lime, clinging to the
taste-buds.

The taste of green
is a deep inhale
after the grass
has just been cut.

Kim Sealock
7-21-19

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