Looking at Glass
Walking on Ice, Thinking of Rasputin
S. C. Hahn
The Oils of EuropeThe fish chased Captain Smith, and on her tail
was a poison stinger which she stuck an inch
and one half into the wrist of his arm.
--Dr. Walter Russell, John Smith's
Travels and Works
The task is always greater than conceived,
coves, with a wind so blustery
When sun rose out of the east's softland,
with shot. That and, of course,
as gold does amongst the Christians.
which brings me to that Flapping One
I commanded my grave be dug,
with all the oils of Europe.
But first I gave that fish the honors
this time that I was still most blessedly alive.
Looking at GlassAlice had it right.
You step in and become
not what you are but what you think
you want. Snow White,
in her clear coffin, was the chic
her stepmom hunted in the mirror.
Wherever she went, that shadow followed,
white as wafers and pure. Beauty is beyond
our own beasts but before that are shards of glass
where you put your head through
or your foot in, slicing
heel-toe, heel-toe to fit the slipper.
In glass, we all smile cheshire.
Which way to go depends on the angle
of light and mirror.
Walking on Ice, Thinking of RasputinIn the parking lot's sheet of ice
gray as a winter Russian lake
a bubble of air is trapped,
an icon for each footstep.
Rasputin's last pearl of breath
After the bullets, the poisoned cakes,
All of the lovers I have used