By: James Constantine Hatzopoulos
Heron
What is the fate of my bow
and six licks from my quiver?
Wired heron. Twigs bridle her wings.
Her body crests like a wave on the shore.
Loopy as my arrows were - four
miss - one does hit her beak below
the nostril, another near the liver,
and so with lamp-white wings
dipping back, but not forth, things
appear mixed-up for her. No soar
to the clouds and the heavens, no
signs of good flying. The river
where I am is bluish-silver,
but when she crashes, limp, making
a radiating central circle, red gore
of her wounds begins to flow
around her, begins to grow
like branching veins in the river.
Pulsating water in outward rings,
blood from where my arrows tore.
Coffee
We are discussing nights.
Please, take a seat.
Are you chic with your herbal choices?
Do you put it in a pot? How do you carry
them - both, or all at once?
Are you a rebrander, a non-sleeper?
Are you a loser with
your lager?
We are discussing losing
life for a cup of coffee or tea.
We are discussing coffee beans,
and whether to grind them
the night before
or the morning of -
Please, take a seat - do they break?
We are discussing espresso
after dinner, ginger-mint before -
What’s that taste?
What do you drink in desperation?
What do you have when you
are panicked?
What is it when you want
both? Do you
excuse yourself to creak into the
corners and guzzle down
a lukewarm cup, sipping on
old brew from a
small porcelain cup?
James Constantine Hatzopoulos lives, writes, and teaches in Northern California. He holds a B.A. in Philosophy and an Ed.M. in Secondary Education.