Brian Simoneau

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Alone in his attic bedroom, moonlight
suffocating in storm clouds, he waited
for a cry to echo back, for footsteps
to follow the howl he taught himself—
a flock’s synchronous trot, the shuffle of
slippers ascending. We whose job it was
to shelter, to hold him close, we slumbered
on sofas, scrolled on our phones. We were told
the flock would last, the flock had grown too large
for keeping, the flock looks after the flock.
When they came for him, a hunger racing
to gather him at last in its chorus, 
he held his breath and crept beyond the fence,
the gate open and whining with the wind.

Not Today, Sadness 

The sky an uncracked blue
I don’t remember. Snow
melting, green spots a tease
of summer. Sadness, you
will not trap me. Today’s
out of season sunlight
shining in, I will watch
cartoons and lick frosting
off a cupcake. I will
dance from room to room. Yes
I feel you staring, taut
in the corner, ready
to attack. Not today, 
sadness. Tonight perhaps
you will grip my throat, choke
my sleep. Do what you must.
For now I am skipping
my way outside to walk
in warm air, warmth carried
from some faraway place
where I imagine you, 
sadness, are not given
even a second thought.

Back to Issue XII…