Terry Wright


The Fly


All those tedious nights
stuck in my lab turn me sullen
you say but the method depends
upon waiting for cells to split
or mold or mutate into trash.

I stride to my chamber
as tin computer reels spin
and VU meters jump and surge
but you, asleep, shade eyes
with a UN visor that masks

the power pulse and blue aura
of steam clouding my hood
and low self-worth. Neon
ripped out of titty bars
blinks before my skin strips,

glows atomic white hot
as you cringe without pillboxes
then it's over. You dart to see
a change like a Lassie Come Home

hopeful mom gushing and ready
to love packing a picnic lunch.
				        It has worked, hasn't it?

You drone your dreams and buzz
about.  I feel funny still.
					It will be all right now.
												I know it will.
You yank my veil off
in a tablecloth trick
that flops.  You screech.
You look like shit, a snack,
and smell sweet as honey--

comb to my mandible,
to my clear convex eyes.



You as Me

All the world's not
a stage but a mirror.

We always match
and get dressed down

using royal pronouns.
The catch: we share

both a room and feelings
and detest very cute.

Every photograph
is a first communion.

In our bookend outfits,
blank as a nun's habit,

we pose like props.
We are only extras

without a single line
and can never be split

unlike the original egg
paired and oval

as our dour faces
framed by selfsame headbands.

(Based on a photograph by Diane Arbus)



Lemonade Stand

It is so sultry that
the clouds are made of smoke
and even sea birds droop.
The glasses, already half full,
are tall but warped
by the heat and are in danger
of returning to sand.

A girl crosses her arms--
stubborn, refusing to pay or
nursing a nasty tummyache
but a boy holds a bill
and smiles as the gulls 
swarm the charcoal colored stand
mistaking it for a landfill.

The proprietor grins
and leans forward on a counter.
His hinged sign shows flavors
but not prices for refreshment
like love or good advice
should be freely given
to quench our parched passions.




(This poem is based on a drawing (above) by the writer's daughter, Leah Wright.  Click for larger image.)