David henson

Tangling With Reality by David Henson

The article about quantum entanglement

is a spooky wave

carrying me into deep waters

far from the safety of familiar shores.

Even the physicists,

smiles glowing like stars,

admit the phenomenon boggles

but is stitched into the cosmos.

For proof they peer at distant quasars

with giant, mountaintop eyes,

crunch data to stardust,

craft formulas so long

as to encircle the globe.

They’re unraveling entanglement

so quantum computers

will better secure our codes and foil hackers.

A galaxy of effort to replace

what a ravenous black hole has devoured.

Meanwhile, a child, as yet

unentangled with reality,

lends their favorite toy to a friend

trusting its return to honesty.

(end)

(Image of David and Annabelle)

David Henson

Symmetry by David Henson

His fractured kaleidoscope

of a childhood obsessed him

with symmetry. He’s transfixed

with how it glistens

in snowflakes, sparkles

in diamonds, graces

the wings of butterflies

he pins to savor

up close. He forces

snips for his girlfriend’s

lazy eye, insists his wife

arrange the furniture

just so, and requires symmetry

during sex. He balances

his desire with an equal

measure of deceit.

When he overhears

his wife’s phone whisperings,

she laughs

How do you like your fucking symmetry now?

For the first time he knows how it tastes.

(end)

The Girl Who Tilted the Earth by David Henson

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)

Mime by David Henson

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

Bulls by 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

Her Husband Keeps the Swords by David Henson

Everywhere. At breakfast he’s taken one

from behind the bran in the cabinet

then poked holes in her over-easies

from three feet away.

She’s found blades

growing warm balanced

across lampshades; sparkling

like water in the shower stall;

in the dresser drawer, smoother

curves than she’s had for years,

he tells her.

One evening she sliced her toe

sliding between the covers

then dreamed all night

about her dog plunging

under the bed after a rolling ball.

He tells her everyone has to

have a hobby. She gives in

and every day while he’s at work

swallows swords like stiff drinks,

the sound of metal honing her teeth,

her body become a razor edge

which one day will greet him with open arms.

(This poem originally appeared in Pikestaff Forum (defunct), #7, Spring, 1986, print only. Not available online.)

David Henson