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Poetry || SubmissionsPoems by Apryl FoxUnsettling Weather I hiccup, which is a good sign I am still alive. I am freezing in this one hundred degree weather, should I tell you anything more? I'm thirsty, haven't drunk anything since last Tuesday, or maybe it was Wednesday when I had the cherry bourbon on a rock, and the wine the night before. But I live each day to the fullest, and maybe a little more or less, depending on the weather. A school of fish flies by, and a strange emotion fills me. When will it be warm again? I think, watching the sky become even grayer, and the wind blow as if the Titanic had returned. Untitled My heart beats fast inside my chest like a drum. There is little or no recollection of the day at hand. The Senior Citizens were supposed to have an outing--as in, they were going to enjoy where they were being taken--but plans were changed when the pet ferret, Bubbles, escaped from his cage. The old people were delighted! They urged it on, calling and cheering and stamping their feet and having a grand old time, and all the while, the Head Nurse, a woman named Delila, was standing in the doorway looking like a peeved mother whose child would not listen to her calls. I did nothing; just stood and stared and watched the ferret race around the room, until at last, it collapsed at old man Harley's feet, and he picked it up and cradled it in his arms as if it were a newborn son. Uncle Seamus Oh, rhythm, you have troubled me again with your intense yapping: would you like to keep it down, please? the baby is sleeping. In five days, we are going to a family reunion. I wonder what it will be like? Will Uncle Seamus be there, still asking the grown-ups to pull his finger? His concentration on that very joke used to be so serious that you can't help but laugh outloud. Sometimes he laughed with you if he had his false teeth. I always wondered how old he was, but he never would tell us, even after years of guessing. I'm thirty, he'd say. Just thirty. I didn't doubt it was true, even after all these years. Wheel What would it be like without the wheel? I've heard about it...rode upon it as I drove in the car, but never experienced it to its fullest potential. Did the cavemen invent the wheel? Did they, before a nice, roaring fire, suddenly exclaim, "Eureaka!" and race for a pile of rocks to shape it into a circle? Of course they would have crudely-shaped weapons, but it was the Stone Age, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and the T-Rex was the King of the Jungle then. Maybe the big bad Tyrannosaurus Rex stomped out the fire when it got too cold before they were finished inventing the wheel, nearly stamping on the cavemen themselves, who were half-asleep. It was past their bedtime. That is my vision of how they invented the wheel: sitting around a warm fire, pounding the circular shape out of a square, undilated rock. To My Future Daughter Did you know, dear daughter, how long I used to sit by the fire, scratching pen across a blank page? Sometimes the words came out with a whoosh! and the poem would be written. Other times, I'd have to think about the poem for a moment, sitting and staring into the roaring fire. I've always loved sitting by the fire, drinking tea and eating marshmellows, especially when the wind is blowing and the coldness grabs at your ears, and I think about you, and what I will name you when you are born. When it is time, I will let you read this poem and reflect upon its meaning, but you are not born yet, my daughter, and so I will rest and dream and gaze into the fire until the cold is gone and my ears stop ringing. Apryl Fox has been published in several magazines, including "Offcourse Magazine," "Magaera Magazine," "Erete's Bloom," "Can We Have Our Ball Back," and "Word Riot," with poetry forthcoming in "Tryst," and "Snow Monkey." Today's Situation
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