A waitress finds her

wailing and convulsing

‘midst porcelain and tile.

A fighter, she held on

‘til methadone prevailed.

Her history scares

couples wanting to adopt.

She grows up wandering

in a forest of fosters.

When she’s thirteen,

a man sneaks into her room,

puts his hand over her mouth.

She takes to the streets,

her body her coin.

Robbed of innocence

too soon, the child

leaves her own behind

at a storefront.

Tempting fate once

too often,

she imagines floating

high above rooftops

and rickety fire escapes.

She crashes so hard,

the earth’s axis tilts,

imperceptible but real.

Like her life.

(end)

David Henson

(Image provided by DWB)

The mime motions for a volunteer.

A young man emerges from the crowd.

The mime tips an imaginary hat.

The young man likewise.

Chuckles mingle among the onlookers.

The mime holds his pretend hat

to his head, leans

against an imaginary wind.

The young man does his best.

The mime nods.

The mime presses his hands

against the walls

of an invisible box,

crouches and pushes

his chin to his chest.

The box is shrinking.

When it appears the mime

is about to be squashed,

he strains his hands above him

and, arms trembling,

struggles to his feet.

The young man tries

to imitate the maneuver,

but the invisible box

continues contracting.

The young man’s mouth opens

in a silent scream until

he disappears.

Someone holds up a phone,

shouts Viral video!

The mime sweeps a bow,

motions for another volunteer.

Twenty hands shoot up.

(end)

David Henson

They surround you

like mountains their shoulders

flanks like boulders

the way they tighten

your breath

strong as a

built like a

mean as a

balls like a

it’s all true

and too too close

don’t worry

about stepping in

those steaming piles or

the urine-soaked straw

don’t pay any mind

to the afterbirth hanging

from that cow’s

mouth keep your eyes

on those bulls

always remember

you’re not one

of those children

who can toss

their arms around

those nightmare necks

whisper secrets

from the corn

into those twitching ears.

(“Bulls” Originally appeared in Poetry Now (defunct) Issue 38, 1983. Print only. Not available online.)

David Henson