Swallowing it Whole
I feel like the dean
who wanders at night
among scholars distinguished
by their emptiness. It’s part
of me, and I accept it.
Behind one door is a tiger.
Behind the other, a ham
sandwich. And on the seventh
day, I swim beneath the surf
like a small fish disrupted
by turtle nesting. Because
I finally know too well
that some beetles spill
their souls into tiny orchids.
I know how a child
can keep a secret, how
inclusive brotherhood can be
when it’s 25 below zero.
I celebrate verbs hard
to master but remain
alert for more trees
aglow with angel hair.
I expect grass sounds,
outhouse explosions,
that sort of thing.
I play happy hour guru
to women, one of silence
and heavenly guilt. I live
for them now: with a ring
of gold in my belly,
with no good options.
Cliff Saunders has an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Arizona. His poems have appeared recently in West Trade Review, Pinyon, Serving House Journal, CURA, Rumble Fish Quarterly, SurVision, and Snow Jewel. He lives in Myrtle Beach, where he serves as co-coordinator of The Litchfield Tea & Poetry Series.