Poetry: Selections from Max Thrax



Gerard’s Dream

Sometimes I wish
To be a piece of ash
Floating over the Pacific

Sometimes a birch
Or clutch of leaves
In deep Siberia

And like the rivers
I run north
Slamming the ice dams
Water leaps from the banks

Most times
I am the overflow
A few reeds in a swamp
Sitting pools

Green sludge
Lodged under fingernails



Aurora

Do I need to see her?
I know she's there

Whatever touches her hair
Turns to gold

Far past her shoulders
Down to the cold ground

I catch her in rays
Follow her shadows

A secret game
Known only to us

In the woods 
I wait

In the grayness of morning
Understand the night



QED

It's not easy
To kill a judge

You need tactics
Planning
Preparation

Maybe half a ton of explosives
Laid under the highway

The real Don Corleone
Was named Salvatore Riina
He never won an Oscar
Or packed cotton in his cheeks

But he was very good
At killing judges

And proved
In a split second
God can leave the earth



Duke Bluebeard

His tendrils were showing
Under his armor

Too late for seventh
As for the sixth, fifth, and fourth

Which bride he loved best
Was an open question

He descended the stairs
With a pregnant sneer

They were all amazed
By the size of his domain

They were awed
By his cold command

They saw racks and spears
Jewels encrusted in blood

And a leaking doorway
From a room filled with tears

He rode from the gate
Out to the fields
Never looking back 

What use their titles
Their lives reduced
To a tiny room
At Duke Bluebeard's





Max Thrax lives in Boston. His novella God Is A Killer (Close To The Bone) will be published in May 2022.

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