If you were a North American GenX kid who didn’t understand the appeal of sports where people hit things and didn’t wear sequins, you might enjoy my poem about figure skating’s most epic battle. It ‘s up now at The Daily Drunk.
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Congratulations to Augur Mag!
This poem was written to celebrate Augur Magazine reaching their 200th backer on their Kickstarter. Yay! If you’d like to back them, click here. Even if you can’t, please share the Kickstarter wherever you can. And no matter what, enjoy this promised poem about space cake.
Happy Birthday to Me
by H. E. Casson (CW: Food, family separation)
Dear mom,
From here in space
I think of you
While eating cake
Another thought
It made me stop
Is that I’ll never lick the blades
You know –
From when you beat the eggs
And sugar
Flour, butter, cream
And then you’d scream
“Turn that thing off
And get this treat!”
(There always was a thing –
A TV
Game
Computer screen)
Off it’d go
And you would show me
How to lick
Between the blades
Until we’d made
A mess of us
I’ll tell you
Cake in outer space
Is soft and moist
To keep its shape
It floats and clings
The crew all sings
From pouches
Happy birthday squeezed
And I am seized
By memories of you
And how I’ll never lick the blades
Created by a cake you’ve made
I traded cake for
Outer space
And outer space is bigger than
The memories we make
Than the smell of chocolate cake
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
Food To Spare
by H. E. Casson (CW: Food, hunger, neglect)
“You eat meat?”
She asked, incredulous
I said no
Then I said yes
Sometimes
I suppose
It feeds my gut
And teases my nose
It sits in my throat
And flavours my tongue
It’s comfort food
From when I was young
And mother would feed me
A chop so big
I forgot when I tasted
That it was a pig
But then, she cares
Her eyes are wet
She is a cow, in dreams
I’ll bet
(Just look at those eyes)
So I rationalize
That I was hungry for almost a year
(No politics for that, I fear)
An empty belly made me see
That I eat them
Or they’ll eat me
And lettuce didn’t fill me up
And orange juice didn’t please my cup
But a pizza pie with bacon strips
Pleased my lips
Reminding me of mother’s chops
The happy smell in butcher shops
And times when hunger was not there
And times when I had food to spare
Published in the Meat issue of (Ex)cite (2001).
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
H. E. Casson 