Susan Terris

Susan Terris
Susan Terris

Leaves,like the things of man

Aminus tide and a waning moon, yet no key.

Onthe littoral, only wrack and runes.

Touchme, Mister-here-yet-not. Hold my hand.

Yesterday,his ghost threw Sunday’s Times

inmy face, a hooked pillow, bedroom slippers.

Tonight,in a false calm, I grieve, walking

atideline strewn with gilted sand dollars.

Tonight,at Seder, I told the boys I’d destroy their

$5Lincolns if the afikomen was not returned.

Tearthem, the eight-year-old said. Burn them.

Butmy son warned: Don’t ever dare her.

Man-not-hereis out of dares and time and memory.

I’mchilled, but the prompt to tear and burn has

hasled me here in search of some key.

Asthe undertow seethes out and in, footprints

slickaway. No good-bye to the silence

andrage of dementia. The runes say I must,

bynow, know both effect and cause,

shadowsof unleaving and of loss. No dawn

willpeach the horizon. No green flash.

Andwhere is the door? Or the heart?

Thisis only land’s end, not the end. I may yet

needto lock him out. But I have no key.

Black Widow Mutation

Hewas worried you’d bite off his head for putting

compostin with trash. Like the joke where

ahusband asks, What have I done right? his worries

increaseas his memories fray, and you must—yet again—

swallowhard. Now, the Black Widow has its appeal:

amale-muncher, freed from protective custody. Till death

dous part did not seem to imply death and death

asan endless cycle. Forget sucking out the richness of

brainmatter. There’s little left. One clean bite might do.

Thoughit looks as if you’ve been crossed

withthe silkworm genes you read about, bred

tospit a stronger thread, one not so easily broken.

Inthis mutant, transgenic state, you may have

forgottenhow to kill and only remember to cocoon.

Fox Dream

Reynardis camouflaged by sumac, Vixen.

Heis in pursuit—will take you leave you take

you.His will, his way. He will make you ache to

slinkand steal, will have you skulk in meadows,

ared singe at sunrise. Fox dream will cause

yourteeth and the nights to grow long, will offer

youbones promising fresh, sweet marrow,

ahidden den of your own.

But—bewarethe fox dream with its pounce and

suddenbite, or you will keen in the shadows,

hungry,alone, desperate to be again silent,

feraland free.

Dingo Dream

Together,we are feral, rolling in the sharp scent

ofthe dead, rolling and rutting and baying.

Thenwe rise and race until grassland and trees

blurto reels of yellow-green grosgrain.

Whenwe’ve outstripped the pack, we seek

full-moonlight, freshwater runnels,

andthe thrill of a hot kill. Hunger propels—

hungerfor blood and bone and pulsing life,

yetalways, too, appetite for more, something

unnameable.Like all predators,

wepursue death, robust, eager, quivering,

because.. . it’s never our own deaths we see.