Quentin Tarantino’s Mary
She couldn’t believe what she heard.
The one still as a daisy
In the backyard of some hovel
Decanting water for one skinny goat.
She turned her head, stunned
In amazement. She even dropped her
Pail with a thud. A whirring
Of plumage accompanied the voice.
On a platter of onions and black olives.
Boiled clean of those feathers,
Whatever it had been,
Went well with the goat cheese.
Wrong Side of the Bed
Under a bough, among laurels, the Muse
Lay sleeping. Some fool,
Supposing she was obligated to speak to him,
Roused her abruptly.
Phoenix-winged she awakened –
Half on fire she flew into his face.
It was frightful in the forest. A man
Made blind – stumbling, crawling,
Wailing – a cauterized cinder for a tongue.
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