B. R. Strahan

First there was magic, incantation; pure bulls walking the walls of Lascaux, bull leapers in Knossus. Then worship, altars raised to heaven, to earth; Aphrodite sailing her shell-white body, Christ ascending on his cruciplane. And then perfection worshipped as magic: Phidias caressing marble . . . . Continue Reading »

With our cameras and crumpled clothes we wait for the bus. We rush to each “beauty spot” through narrow streets, observing signs whose alphabet we fail to comprehend. Pretty girls are scattered like rain. We pass students on bikes, old people stooped over bundles. The new “good life” of . . . . Continue Reading »

The alarm sinks its teethinto my ear. I drag outof our warm bed. Anotherwinter day breaksin fragments of nightmare.The sun hasn’t shown,afraid to face this growling windand the thousands of drearycommuters going nowhere beyondthe dollar sign and grave marker. I punch on the light and youroll back . . . . Continue Reading »

Nutshells on patched linoleum,cracks skipped overon the long sidewalk home,hide-and-go-seek gamewe stopped counting. Still sometimes we huntfor that small face,ragged sleeve abovea chapped hand.We search beneathdecayed porches, throughyards full of dry weedsand rusted cans. The blown years . . . . Continue Reading »