<i><b>Wicked Alice Poetry Journal
wicked alice| summer 2007

Yoly ??

4 Sevenlings






His song persuades applesauce

to scream, a boiling broth to hush,

and urges foes to befriend.


I am a recorder for his librettos,

a cathedral for his plea,

and a married woman, for heaven's sake.


I hope he likes red beans and rice.





I carry an umbrella, a lone key

and a mug crowned by coffee fog

as I dash through a deluge.


My entry is quick like crash-kisses.

The radio, defroster and wipers coo.

And steam London Ęs over my eyes.


My message needs a cell phone.





You go away on big business,

grizzly bear sleep,

and your senate in the tool shed.


But you don't come away

to my occupation, loopy dreams

or under my dress.


In what route did we lose the plums?





We went mad over lemon rice,

gully cricket and Nandi Hill -

were roused to form our ethnicity,


drink from the other as if we were water.

The air rumbled with masala,

rosin, and nightly monsoons.


Bangalorian Nag Champa is now a snake of ashes.