"When I'm old, call me withered, call me a toad,

More Perihelion:

Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series

Book Reviews

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Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

A quick list to poets featured in this issue:

Robin Behn

Richard Garcia

John Hennessy

Adrian Matejka

Ayukawa Nobuo

Eunice Odio

Kathryn Rantala

Anna Ross

Mathias Svalina

Larissa Szporluk

Kevin Tsai

Mathias Svalina

Red Plastic Cup

My body's shadow flows over the asphalt
like water in my cupped hands draining out.
As if, were I able to be any thing,
I'd be a red plastic cup, the world

stiff with structured musculature.
When I'm old, call me withered, call me a toad,
regretful. Prod the folds of my turkeyed
neck with a rod, shaking wall-cast shadows.

Cars jerk forward; sun silvers chrome bumpers.
I watch my shadow flow over asphalt.
I'd like to hold water in my cupped hands,
to become a small red plastic cup

atop which the world stands with gymnast muscles.
When I'm old, call me withered, call me failed,
poke my turkey neck with a stick to shake
shadows on the wall. The cars jerk forward,

sun silvers chrome bumpers. My body slips
over the asphalt. The liquid slip
of water draining from my cupped hands:
this moment, this pleasure. As if I were

able to be anything I want,
to be called withered & regretted; certain
of the finality of ugliness,
the sun-hot mockery of the cars

jerking forward, silvered by the sun.
If it rains, I will walk home, as long
as there is sun, my body will be shadow.
Shadows collect in this red plastic cup