ching I ~ by Shari-Lyn McArthur

a bridge to cross
and one to burn
the fragrance of orchids

Repast - by Shari-Lyn McArthur

Times ain’t like they used to be.

Ever listen to Country?
Times have never been like they used to be.

Seriously!
Back in the day, the local palais
a kid could really stomp.
There were no fences
to our frontiers;
no collars
to fetter our breathmaking fears.
Nothing like this parent-supervised-play-date crap of today.
Be home for dinner, was all my mother had to say.
(And for dessert, she served forgiveness, rare.)

You stomp
still.
You take
a mile
and claim it
a metric inch.

(Conversion formula memorised. Please do not show all your work.)
Well, at least I never went hitchhiking.

Only because your boyfriend
was a drummer
in a punk rock band,
and drove a bedroom
in a custom van.

What’s for dessert?

The Vices of Fidelity - by Shari-Lyn McArthur

The Vices of Fidelity

I inhale you filterless
miasmal sigh and
horehound kiss

swig 
the dregs 
of your juniper wit

tongue the gutter for each and every drip

my mouth 
burlesques 
a taiko drum 

through the gorge down to the last molten crumb

see me wager on you past sanity

borrow from myself
sans recourse
to make the ante

your darkest matter
the lure
of my enlightened fears 

our felix culpa
the bond 
of your earthy gravisphere