Sandman
The Sandman is a sand man,
literally, not Hans Christian Anderson’s
sanitized elf who sprinkles dust
into children’s eyes when they must
sleep. He’s a pile of silica grit,
a shape-shifting bringer of stories
and memories you’d rather forget.
That crust you rub from your eyes
is residue from his resentful spite,
insomniac that he is, Hypnos’s
son Morpheus who cannot get a wink at night.
So he makes us doze,
a frequent occurrence.
His brother, Thanatos,
comes but once.
They’ll Ban Flowers Next
because as soon as one of them hears
that the plants are bisexual--
the silken petals parted
like open lips, wet and fragrant
and ready for the sweet pollen
pearled on the swollen tip
of its erect stamen
to be tasted by a bee
getting busy, stimulating
the ovule to make seed
that will spill gloriously
over its hanging sepal, down
its stiff stem
to the garden bed--
Oh yes, oh yes,
they’ll ban flowers next.
A former producer with Wisconsin Public Radio, John Desjarlais taught English at Kishwaukee College (IL) for 26 years. His short fiction and poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including The Critic, Conclave, The Rockford Review, Dappled Things, Kakalak, and Pinesong. His latest novel is The Kill Floor (Torchflame Books 2022). www.johndesjarlais.com
The Sandman is a sand man,
literally, not Hans Christian Anderson’s
sanitized elf who sprinkles dust
into children’s eyes when they must
sleep. He’s a pile of silica grit,
a shape-shifting bringer of stories
and memories you’d rather forget.
That crust you rub from your eyes
is residue from his resentful spite,
insomniac that he is, Hypnos’s
son Morpheus who cannot get a wink at night.
So he makes us doze,
a frequent occurrence.
His brother, Thanatos,
comes but once.
They’ll Ban Flowers Next
because as soon as one of them hears
that the plants are bisexual--
the silken petals parted
like open lips, wet and fragrant
and ready for the sweet pollen
pearled on the swollen tip
of its erect stamen
to be tasted by a bee
getting busy, stimulating
the ovule to make seed
that will spill gloriously
over its hanging sepal, down
its stiff stem
to the garden bed--
Oh yes, oh yes,
they’ll ban flowers next.
A former producer with Wisconsin Public Radio, John Desjarlais taught English at Kishwaukee College (IL) for 26 years. His short fiction and poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including The Critic, Conclave, The Rockford Review, Dappled Things, Kakalak, and Pinesong. His latest novel is The Kill Floor (Torchflame Books 2022). www.johndesjarlais.com
