Monday, December 14, 2015

William C. Blome- Three Poems

William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as The Alembic, Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.


I’d love to fall asleep in no time flat
on a Mexican girl with big, soft arms and a snug-fitting,
fuchsia beret in siesta. Why is it everyone but you thinks
I could be a success—could make a decent go of it—
selling little jet engines in the capital of Belize? Why,
I’m still stepping on marbles in the den;
you know, from the evening you flipped the Chinese
checkers board over in growing and overflowing ecstasy
that a pilot was landing his hand in your blouse
and wouldn’t come to a stop until he’d taxied all the way
down to your navel. When I went to court last week,
everyone had to wait for better than an hour
before some crew-cut, white-haired judge finally made
his stiff appearance, and his smelly, lame excuse was that
he’d had all kinds of chores to do and errands to run
before “the missus would let me come to court.”


No, I’m okay waiting for you, I really am,
Because from where I recline,
I can look outside and watch a scorpion’s
Trajectory project into my sun parlor,
Even here make out the curling tail
And the stinger’s hot shadow on my wall,
Even discern the scorpion’s twin objectives:
To interrupt a green brick skyscraper’s
Regimental outline, and simultaneously
Pick apart a pigeon’s progeny.
You have to admit, my lily-of-the-valley,
These two goals easily coalesce
Into one transparent and fiery mission,
So much so I’d rather you take your time
And not show up at my daybed
Till the scorpion and its great tasks
Have clearly passed from view.


O the rabbit’s got a garnet,
yeah, the rabbit out there’s garnet-ized,

and your father wants to maim me,
daddy wants to hack me up,

and a former Miss Nebraska
with butt cheeks now that just won’t quit

slips under your still-warm covers
not ten minutes since you’ve left.

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