POETRY BY BRIAN ROSENBERGER

Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, Georgia and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of As the Worm Turns and three poetry collections: Poems That Go Splat, And for My Next Trick..., and Scream for Me. Another is for and the forthcoming this year: Where the Stars are Strange.

HER HUSK

The doll, constructed of corn husk and spit,
By the new workers, fresh from Nebraska.
They honor their dead in strange ways,
Just as long as they tend my fields.
Madison was a leader, a good worker,
Her attitude landed her role at the House,
And her looks, my boudoir.
The child mine? Debatable.
Neither mother or child survived the labor.
I do miss Madison. Her gentle hands. The kind smile.
The workers made straw dolls as tribute.
Not unlike the Scarecrows that inhabit my fields,
Keeping the birds and varmints away.
The field workers shake the dolls when they see me,
Straw and dust flying. I feign a smile and wave.
Come the harvest, we celebrate with a bonfire.
The workers toss the dolls into the blaze.
Why do I feel uncomfortably warm?

THE BUSINESS MEN

Suit and Tie guys. Custom-Tailored,
Down to their socks. If not for their scars,
They could be runway models.
Their clothes are wet, blood-stained.
Not their blood. Fresh from their previous meeting.
No time to change clothes. They’ve never missed a meeting
Or even been late. Always punctual. Always professional.
Their faces friendly but lack smiles.
No time for smiles. No time for small talk.
All business. The taller of the two does the talking.
He’s direct, to the point. Shows his butcher’s blade to illustrate.
The smaller of the two just smiles. A shark’s smile.
Contract offered. Contract signed. No blood signature needed.
The universe is Chaos. They restore Order.
Order is their business. By any means necessary.
Their bosses demand it. Their business partners comply
Or are no longer partners.
Their dry cleaners, business partners for years,
Have little rest but appreciate the business.
Like they have a choice.

THE CUTTING MOON

The Crescent moon, more of a scythe.
A Wolf’s silhouette, captured mid-howl.
The fog creeps, shadows lengthen,
Hiding the Wolf, not for long.
The Crescent moon drips red.

THE CRONE’S REVENGE

The Crone’s curse—no heirs.
Despite the Queen, the mistresses, the hand maidens, the servants,
Any and all havens, refuges, and sanctuaries, there to satisfy the King,
Her Curse proved true. By accident, assassin, or jealous relative,
By poison, dagger, sword, or trampled by horse or carriage,
Enflamed by flying beasts, or skull-bashed by bog monsters,
Or strangled by dirt-crusted cemetery hands, no heirs survived.
None. Not one.
By the King’s order, by my Royal decree—
The Crone’s hands hacked off. The threat of gestures invoking spells removed.
The Crone’s tongue cut out. No incantations to be uttered again.
Her bones and limbs scatted in the woods, the swamp, the bog, and the marsh,
Her remains to be devoured or left to rot.
Curse her. Curse me.
Her familiars—roasted, toasted and flambéed, all consumed. Delicious.
Her potions and concoctions left to the dirt. Not to be trusted.
But I forgot one thing. Damn her. Damn me.
The knocking, the persistent knocking, wanting in, wanting revenge.
Her damn broom.