POETRY BY JOHN GREY

John Grey is an Australian poet, currently living in the United States. He has recently been published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon.

THE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE TWINS

One twin stares blithely heavenward.
The other smirks at the camera.

One sits on her mother’s lap.
The other’s hand is grabbing at something off-camera.

If it wasn’t for their eye shades,
it would be impossible to tell them apart.

But one twin’s are aqua blue,
the others are green with a tinge of red.

The mother’s expression is half-way between
serenity and uneasiness.

The twins are in their thirties now.
The mother is buried at St Michaels.

Both are nurses.
Both work night-shift in the city hospital.

One reacts to a patient’s distress
with patience, insight and caring. 

The other is bemused by someone writhing in agony,
is often jealous of what is causing it.

BULLETIN FROM THE BEDPOST

I am the monster of my own dreams.
I infect you with my terrors—
the bloody rancor of the mind
runs the ramparts of good and evil
as my body trembles
in the warring sheets—
and not forgetting the palpitations of the heart,
that battleground of hope and damnation.

The glistening strophe…the dirge
droned low by myth…such blasts,
such fires, such cacophony.
And what of you…

The bones rattle in your ghostly frame.
Eyes roll. Chest caves.
Face glows blood red.
Thank God, nothing I am can wake you.

I SHOW MY PLANTS TO SOME STRANGERS

This is a pitcher plant.
See the cavity
formed by cupped leaf.
a glittery bribe of
gossamer colors, sparkling nectar.
Flying, foraging, crawling insects
respond to the lures,
are trapped,
the sides too steep, too sticky,
are sucked in, drowned, dissolved.
Now imagine one of these
forty times this size,
its leaves flaunting jewels,
its buds puffing scent.
A human seduced
by its array of wonders,
could draw near enough
for cobra-shaped fronds
to grasp the unwary,
squeeze and haul
flesh and blood and bone
into hungry pummels
for their succor.

Nectar and jewels, colors and scent…
They’re like a solitary house
with the light on
in the midst of dark wind-swept woods.
And we all know who lives there.
I do.