Val Morehouse

____version from a traditional slave spiritual,
circa 1860’s...
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We will know and remember with
the inferno in our hearts,
the day a devil’s passport was stamped:
“Return to sender.”
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In dim coolness, underground,
punctuated by the dropp and whine of the elevator
I cut open boxes and stock tomorrow’s shelves.
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“It is also well known within the nuclear power industry, that minor accidents occur on a regular basis due to human error or purposeful sabotage.”___ Kevin Briggs, Director, U.S. Disaster Preparedness Institute,2001.


Complacency is its trigger. “Clean” its alias. Money its game.
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Sit down little one, and I’ll tell you a story, just
hand over my deck of wicked stepmothers scary,
spells, curses, schemes, and no-money-down deals from
ordinary folks who embezzle the poor and unfortunate.
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A building built like a blockhouse is
my office. Air-conditioned. Climate controlled.
No number on the door.
Of course. No one knows where
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Fifty generations of moles contracted business
amid this grassy wood. Turreted trees provided all needs,
an easy Eden shingled green to lighten heavy
Junes with dew threading silver
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Crackle of sun stranded
in blue glass she waits in that
white house so old
her breath haunts the cold
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Dusk, an evening star...
firefly in the garden,
July moon rising.
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Warm the petaled sun
budding from each winter breath
a crocus of light.
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Gold of sunrise
green leaves gilded by frost, and
pumpkins like money.
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Covering ground like lightning the fox-tongue coats
rerun other hunts and shake out last coins of laughter.
One stirrup cup, and they mount to run
the beast from her hollow.
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Green. Green the leaves,
and waves gray on the forehead of the beach.

As easy as breeze tensing lengths of hair
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Like a lover he enters my life,
carrying his dark purpose into the bedroom.
Each thing opens to him like a map.
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Red as a war canoe
shaking with feathers
moon rides the dark clouds.
The sea speaks its name.
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There is something raw in the taking,
an ordinary sadness that
blackens in the bottom of the cup.
Here a fly is swatted,
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Who am I? Why, you’re Mama.
No, I am not. I am your daughter.
Stop foolin’ me!
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Rectangles stark with shadow held tight
against life’s revelation,
that open and close on moments,
a reunion in every slam,
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Half moon rising under cypress skin I slip open
the way green light flashes between
naked forest limbs.
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A fish flying high
in the breast catches its death,
breath falls
from the ladder of
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