By John Grey
Big Kid Kids play street hockey. Orange pucks clack from stick to stick. Matt has at least a head on all the others. And he’s wider than any two of them. “Shoot it Matt!” screams a teammate. “Thump him Matt!” yells a voice from the sideline. But Matt doesn’t shoot. Nor does he thump anyone. He fears what his powerful shot would do to the face of that trembling knee-trembling goalie. He worries that a body slam could be some poor opponent’s death-knell. His body’s the biggest, the strongest, there is. But he only occupies a part of it. The Eel The eel is long, slithery, snake-like, a bottom-dweller, round in front, flattened behind, its tiny-scaled skin coated in slimy mucous. The creature is silvery-brown above, paler below. Its fins are low its dorsal continuous with tail. But its mouth is large, with pectinate teeth, and the lower jaw protrudes slightly. One or more of them are somewhere down below these brackish waters. Their bite is harmless to humans but their ugliness is not. Spring Morning as played on a Flute I hear what I hear, not a single reed. That’s about it. A sigh for the unspoken. Today is one for the heart to memorize, a lovely day to tweak the fingerholes. The forsythia is game, blown through a woodwind, with fluted bright yellow, a perfect chord. It lines the busy street, so perfect, so perfect, and stretches as far as the one note off key.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.
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