2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4
The acrobacy of the worm
as it stretches itself over the mobile
allows you to become
aware of the lawn
at your feet. A muscle stretches
beyond your jawbone,
touches your wife
at her ear. She will soon hear your heart
beating her cheeks flush,
think of the baby
stretching its fingers for the bait.
Can this be controlled
by self-denial, religion,
can be happy again.
Surely, the baby doesn't have to reach
for the worm. But
don't forget the sun,
its rising despite the pain in your side,
its call to the soil,
to the lawn. And then,
of course, the moon. We all have to grow.
In four short beats,
these three people
will be crying.
About the author:
Matthew Frank has previously published or has work forthcoming in Tampa Review, Bellingham Review, Pleiades, Rosebud, Confrontation, Brevity, So To Speak, and others. His body lives in Arizona, his heart in Alaska, and his current favorite recipe is: Seared Hokkaido Sea Scallop with Lychee Nut-Sesame Sorbet, Parmagiano-Reggiano, Lavender Oil, and Sel Gris. He can be reached at .