Pillow Snow

The snow comes across the sky

like feathers from a pillow-

one that perhaps you have smashed

with reckless joy

against your best friend's head.

The flakes, too, are reckless.

They see me through my window.

They flock against the glass

to get a better look at me.

They show me their six identical corners.

I show them my two unique eyes.

by nessa locke 2021

See Me Home

 In those moments just after twilight

A Summer’s day in the middle of Fall

Three lanky silhouettes on a basketball court

At the elementary school.

One poofy head

One smooth head

One ball cap

One headlight

Then one head light

Then more headlights in an endless growl

A guttural vibration

A motorcycle roar

I am the shark that splits them

Porch light

Snow cat

Pumpkin cat

Moon cat

You know the kind

With moons for eyes against midnight black fur

Staring at me from the shadow

Just after twilight in the middle of Fall

by nessa locke 2020

Scrap Poetry

I demolished a book today. 

Like a regular sadist.

I did it to get the boy interested in poetry. 

We spoke of mechanics and theme and tone. 

We looked for power words and mood and proper grammatical structure. 

We pieced words and phrases together from the scraps of an old paperback my friend had given to me. (She didn't like it you see, but I might, if I gave it a try. And I tried.)

The boy and I clipped and snipped and rearranged the bits.

We stuck them onto new backgrounds and committed them to their new order with Elmer's. 

We didn't unwrite the pages. We obliterated the pages.

And now the words belong to us.

Savages, we.

My scrap poem:

There was a strange note in his voice

words of wisdom

in a grating voice

in a voice so choked with fury it was scarcely 

recognizable

So I rolled my eyes up as far as they would go and

pressed the spoon to your lips

You were like   a little bird   swallowing obediently

but never opening your   ensuing discussion

long thoughtful silence

to stir the strongest sensations, and

When I awoke, I was surrounded

Everyone began shouting at once

One of the soldiers must be a traitor.

Lyric's scrap poem:

His first words of the king

he inspected the ancient rarest of gems at 6

The point where the Bowmen of Cush ghost was willing to take Emerson's word

His poor wife had reminded of this time alone while it struck