Cheetah Conceived In Circuiting Speed

cheetah-running

Cheetah Conceived In Circuiting Speed

Amber eyes hide: secret
in leaves—then summer unsheathes
in seizures of green. Livid stripes fly;
all spots blur off—spurred on,

he rends; his renderings gush.
He tears through the bars, past
cardiac blush. The trail of lost
spots lines holes in the mind.

The wild won’t rest—his run
can’t arrest—his panics
slash anima across savannah sands.

The span of an axis is the path
of his race; the scope of a globe,
after an appetite no man can hold.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

This poem appeared previously on the Very Nice, Very Nice blog under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.

Singular Motherhood

eyes2

Singular Motherhood

Housewife, how benign.
That life’s not mine.

I raised them fine,
looked after each one.
Now I want fun, so I spend
what I’ve spun. Lives

Like my son’s, escaping
to college before his policy was claimed.
No more stomach pains for him.
So I turned to his kin,

Insured in the spring.
Her sickness now crippling,
I unfailingly sit,
holding cold nails with manicured lines
in arsenic white.
Her shrivelling cries, I always attend.
Paralysed by the love I inject,
in the hospital bed,

She’s just like her dad. Dead,
I had my way with his heart
through his stomach; both stopped.
Nobody thought
of what he’d been fed. “Hepatitis,” they said.
I got a cheque.

And I spent it on dresses, jewels and etcetera.
Creditors called,
Call my son’s what I said.
Since he’s not dead, he should pay
for my buying.
My logic is fine.

Though my credit is dire.
Bad cheques got me arrested,
and some friend was a snitch
about those needles I’d give
to my daughter. Her father, they wondered.
My son dug him up.
This needs to be done. “Of course,” I agreed.

Autopsy’s next week.
I needed a break, so I drove from our street
and our lives and their ends
and even our state. A new life’s what I’ll raise.

Something’s wrong with my brain.
That’s what I’ll say
to the next one I find.
And that I’m set to inherit, before dying
from some cancer of the mind.
I hope he likes blondes,

Because that’s what I see
in the future of me,
sort of like a twin;
the one I keep in
till she marries again.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

This poem appeared previously on the Very Nice, Very Nice blog under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.