Poetry Issue 9

   Issue # 9: January-June 2008

Mabi David


      It gurgles over. Months before
      the pebble once beheld for the prospect
      of one-time skipping was dubbed premium
      for one’s plans to visit in the summer

      an ocean, so one tucked it into a pocket
      (and for whatever else one thinks to keep
      a pebble) till undressing one finally forgot

      about it. At the funeral I cannot tell you
      a story so small, piddling to the sum
      that governs you so I go back to the bend
      where he held this token premium

      and handed me, newly minted company,
      and I throw it back where it lodges at the throat
      of a crook, which rends the air with gurgling.