The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                         †††† december-2011                                                    Number-2




by Askold Skalsky

I blame the mirror,

turning me frail, insensible,

and, most of all,


It has unveiled this body,

which betrays me every day:

I see it spew and fester

in my spruced up coffin

between the smiles arranged

like clockwork springs and ratchets

on my face,

dousing me with silver spite, then beaming

its silver arrows at my side, small slivered

points casually applied, like silent echoes

of an absent grace.  


by Askold Skalsky

I love them for themselves by far,

unrooted from their sentences,

clinging stragglers after and before

and hold them upward to the light,

watching the afterglow

slide downwards through their parts,

the suffixes and prefixes in tow

while the roots thicken in their burly embryos,

baring their traces to the sight.

Then, fixed upon a screen or page,

they take their places in a dead-dumb show,

laid out like little ants before mindís firing line

inside their spaces, row on row.

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