by Charlie Robert
Like Heathcliff on the Moor
He comes in the worst part of the night.
The moon has either set
or never risen.
There are no intelligent constellations
His Mother rips off her dress as
he slides fishlike from her V.
His Amniotic Sack.
The Caul of Good Fortune.
Dark and bright.
She names him Judas
because she likes the name.
When he is twenty-two he will
Win the War.
Across the hall someone else is born and
lives three minutes.
Filled with a high pitched keening.
Like Heathcliff on the moor.
A bunch of new Bigwigs are boarding Stage Four.
Praying for more.
Dim Sum for your colon.
Some cigarettes too.
A clean linen gown and now what do we do?
What do we do in a room with no view?
We staple gun hope to our faces each day.
We read the endings first.
On the Edge of a Field
A line of yellow maples crack.
Spilling branches on late autumn wheat.
You can hear the crows but cannot locate them.
Their sheltering dark.
Blessed with priors.
Barbed with choirs.
Charlie Robert is a writer and poet living in Silicon Valley. His work is Punchy. Stark. Filled with creatures close to the earth. He has been published in various Literary Journals and Anthologies and currently is working on new collections of original poems and chapbooks.