By Edward Butscher

Moses’ eyes concave

into zealot blindness

that makes stone burn,

cold flesh grow green.


Serpent as a piece

of red bakery string

dropped on a bed,


blinking unblinking

at the sepia smiles

of alien relatives,


the old woman’s

cancer-sour tongue

paints her bedroom

the color of corn.


This is my crime.

Survival is hers.


A robin’s blank eye

mimics a sun nugget

set so still amid vague

fluff carnage of its

wingless remains:


the beauty of a thing

that once had breath,

being and beauty

fused into a tear

for cupped hands

to catch intact


buffed perfect

between artful lids.


Poet, critic, and literary biographer, Edward Butscher resides with his wife, Paula Trachtman, in Greenport, Long Island. His poetry and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies since 1976. Collections of his poetry include Poems About SilenceAmagansett Cycle, and Child in the House. His biography Sylvia Path: Method and Madness, was the first of that poet, and Conrad Aiken: Poet of White Horse Vale won the Melville Kane Award from the Poetry Society of America.

Comments are closed.