by Gabe Foreman

Scene: a muddy field at harvest

Icarus: This corn I brought to share has been cooked

all the way through, now the cobs are soft

and covered with cheese.

I extend a floppy cob to you—

Tina: I have work to do. Besides, last night I used

your father’s stubble like a tool, drawing his service

to my kernel with a sigh.

Icarus: (aside) I watch enthralled

as she chucks a whole whack of carrots

into a damp case of loam.

Tina: Icarus, as you admire my working curves and hair—

Icarus: There is straw in your hair.

Tina: —pay keen notice to the nature of my coy disdain:

I hope your silent observation may last

the entire winter.

Icarus: I see what you mean. Each speech balloon’s inflated

with virginal uncertainty—it’s a flirtation device.

Tina: Yes. But there’s a catch: “Whenever words are turned

to purely voluptuary uses and divorced from rational purpose the end result is not a real advance, but rather

Icarus: —the beginning of decadence.” Say,

isn’t that Irving Babbitt?

Tina: Where?

Icarus: Way up there, with those pelicans.


by Gabe Foreman

You little hobgoblins, lavish backyard

dandies starving with your barbeques open—

what did you expect? Had you somehow heard

that fridges would spring to life in the den

as you lurched up the drive, cocktails lifting

swirling, stirring as they self-poured, and soared

past fine furniture to land (ice-tinkling)

in your decomposing hand at the door?

Listen here: our hearts and minds are not breasts

tumbling tenderized from some plane above.

You must call first, play the host, make us love

that undead bread. Stand up. Do not rest

in peace any longer. We can do the math.

Who makes toast that close to the bath?



Heralding from Lake Superior's north shore,
the half woodsman, half city slicker, quarter werewolf
Gabe Foreman has published his poetry
in numerous journals, including
Fiddlehead, Prism and Grain.

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