The Fruits of Her Labor
Derek Richards

she loved to poison her strawberries.
the practice of inviting
complete strangers into her garden
was not unusual for harriet.
fascination was an unfamiliar tongue
garnering praise upon her sunflowers,
guessing the secrets behind the eyes
of those admiring the watermelon.

upon the end of the tour,
those who appreciated her hard work
were shown to the back gate,
cast out with just a warm smile
and gentle goodbye.

for those who merely trampled their
way through her masterpiece,
oblivious to the tender genius
responsible for each rose, each perfect vegetable, every crucial vine,
they received a basket of fruit
and excellent directions back to the highway.

 

 

Hunting Season

who is credited with this curse?
jeremiah, of course,
carving his initials into the tortured breasts
of scarlet maidens as they howl
like housecats, familiar
as the light-switch, blades
cold and calculating
as the precision of a promise.

as autumn fades again
into a stainless steel sunset,
orange darkens to red then to black.
jesper the cat leaves comfort behind
to chase down a renegade dustball.
do i still smell her scent,
lingering like the western glow
smudged on dirty windows?

white flags declare hunting season open.
scarlet waits by the forest entrance,
shotgun warm and impatient.
hunters will arrive in pick-ups,
in vans of gluttony,
excited, orange, and often drunk.
one by one, she’ll be hunting too.
her ex-husband adorned their living room
with heads of deer, moose and an antique bear.
they smelled like trophies should,
abused and left to stare through spotless windows.

jeremiah arrives, spots scarlet
by the yellow scarf
worn loose across her shoulders.
“hello” he says, already turned on and high.
“do you like to hunt?” she asks.

 

DEREK RICHARDS, after performing both music and poetry in the Boston area for twenty years, shed his fear of rejection and began submitting his work this past August. So far his poetry has appeared in over thirty publications, including Lung, Word Riot, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Opium 2.0, Splash of Red, Calliope Nerve, Right Hand Pointing, Breadcrumb Scabs, Tinfoildresses, Poets Ink, Foundling Review and Underground Voices. He has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. His dog, cat and two ferrets admire his attempts to be honest, direct, brilliant and lucrative. Also, he wants you to know that he has compiled over 50 fantasy sports championships. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA, cleaning windows for a living.

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