First Hour.
By Charlotte Merrill
Creased grit in rolling flabs of dying dermis
spits Pericles
on tight pores, colorful locks, full sets of parallel fresh from orthodontia,
wrinkles and loosens the skin like used tin foil,
drips onto chipped and mismatched boards.
Pericles and his riddle creep up squared-off ramparts
to a Titanic balcony,
where vivid curls have replaced orthodontia,
unused spines rise and fall,
and subtle snorts fill musty air.
Giant marble men with scaly loin cloths
fly from the soapbox,
smash into the caked rear wall,
and soft, sharp talc explodes.
Masses of chestnut Clydesdales tromp over slippery dentures,
hit and miss an attentive first row,
soil the ultimate edges of tile and grout,
choke on talc's residue.
Olive bones creak and reach from a misused stage,
but turn ivy before contact with the first sneaker.
Bronze schooners slide over worn taste buds,
cruise into arctic echoes,
shatter, slice, and melt,
wash away ivy talc and soil.
Three-Twenty hits,
penetrates mental blocks,
relieves snorting heads,
rustling begins.

Strength,
By Charlotte Merril

of fine coffee soil,
soupy airborne mud,
hands and grubby bitten fingers.
Of a 3-foot shovel
Dad made of iron
to help dig irrigation
and a swimming hole to snorkel.

from the light layer that covered my back,
bent to battle
fierce stones, steaming ultraviolet.
The spidery alfalfa roots
pulled back in protest.
The lemonade
made from oranges
from a citrus tree transformed
in the middle of this summer fire.

Resonance.
By Charlotte Merril

Lila Downs
dropped scrap metal
in my rain bucket.
Grabbed the handle of my rake,
drilled it firmly under the lawn.
Pounced across stones,
threw salt in my lake,
fished for ginger catfish.
Beat a heavy bongo.
Lifted a flute,
blew into my chocolate milk,
ate the wheat crust of my bread,
and poured syrup over my blue and white tile.
Someone screamed, "turn her down!"
She marched up,
handed me her trumpet
and I blew it.
She skipped around with tambourine.
Lila wailed in pain,
I danced La Bamba
on sheepskin.