Poetry |

“Blaming Mercury” and “How Rome Was Founded in the Wilderness”

Blaming Mercury

 

Mercury’s in retrograde, they say,

which means as much to me as “stroganoff’s

in platypus.” Yet friends assign this planet

the blame for a raft of problems: clumsiness,

 

acne, painful menstrual cycles, fights

with family or partners, especially men.

I’ve been lucky – the men I’ve dated never

screamed or raised a hand, never tried

 

to frighten me. The closest was a guy

who turned loud and jealous when he drank.

One night, tired of his shit, I drove away

and he spit on my car. The next day he acted

 

baffled, swore he’d never do that, til I

was half-convinced I hadn’t seen what I saw.

I ended things soon after. He beat my door,

demanding that I talk to him, but left

 

when I held a phone up to the window, dialed

a 9, a 1. Still, I wasn’t afraid.

I was lucky. My grandmother wasn’t.

Her husband sent flowers to win her back,

 

then killed her. I know other women who’ve made

the choice to flee the men they loved, and blamed

themselves, their blood, their luck, a little ball

of iron sulfide fleeing toward the sun.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

How Rome Was Founded in the Wilderness

 

Sun cracks open the forest’s ribcage.

Each morning, the she-wolf inspects

 

the pink babes nuzzling her teats, thinks,

Today I will eat them.  They’ve grown fat

 

on her milk since she found them half-drowned

and squalling on the riverbank. Her own pups

 

had sickened, their sweet smell turned to rot,

so when she sniffed the two hairless rats,

 

she fed them from her thoughtless grief.  Now,

they’re round and toothsome, but they smell like her,

 

hot sweat and shit.  They don’t have teeth

to eat the prey she brings, though they lick

 

contentedly at blood.  Their tiny claws

are sharp as thorns; their eyes, at first vague

 

as deer’s, now track the fern-flicks of wings

and subtle paws.  If she lets them live,

 

they’ll learn to run, to hunt.  What strange packs

these beasts would form.  They squirm against her fur,

 

and she soothes them with a snarl.  If they live,

she’ll teach them how to fight for territory,

 

kill for it, piss to show their ownership,

howl their names from seven cold hills.

 

 

Contributor
Juliana Gray

Juliana Gray’s third poetry collection is Honeymoon Palsy (Measure Press 2017). Recent poems have appeared in The Chatthoochee Review, Rogue Agent, Dunes Review, and elsewhere. An Alabama native, she lives in western New York and teaches at Alfred University.

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