Bonnie Parker Finds Her Photo in the Paper
By Kayla Bernadas
She spread the image edge-to-edge
across the kitchen table:
a front page feature in big block letters
with her name framed up and placed just-so.
Bonnie leaned forward on to her elbows
and saw the letters PUBLIC ENEMY
like a movie title, in curling script.
All that time long ago
at the diner, in her past life
when she had a legal husband
and an apron full of change,
she’d often leave their cramped apartment
a few hours early to catch a matinee.
She was a glorious bird in a rusting cage then.
Sometimes, just to let the time pass
she’d collect the scenes outside her window;
each part of the country seemed to carry
its own romantic light.
They were always in that car, thieves on vacation,
and it burned like shots of liquor
with a hand like Clyde’s atop her knee.
The mid-morning light caught her like a storefront display
when she stood in the door frame to tell the whole gang.
She was always the first one awake.
She saw her shadow on the floorboards:
the silhouette of someone who turned her back on society,
just a troublesome woman getting back at the world.
She liked the sound of it.
It was much more exciting
than a day of fake smiling
and serving pie on chipped plates
to unhappy fat men, whose nickels she’d save
to hide in the theatre
and dream of a life
much like her life now.
She just wished those reporters
would stop their damn lying
and telling these strangers
that she smoked cigars.
Porch Series Outtakes
By Marie Claire Bryant
Unidentified season meddles me
Sprouted nights leave wet peach pits
sleeping at the windowsill. Summer waved again gal,
Summer has nailed some things into the wall, Summer nor east of westward
and the peach will follow suit- rotten into autumn
our straight denim sleeves
and enter the mirror.
Porch series outtakes still like rain
ran like rain
Come visit my gallery potluck; see the sediment so far accumulated at the bottom of my night. Are you gold man? If you
make women tremble
and leave them pumpkins to carry
The Knocking Eye
By Marie Claire Bryant
Love spit the porch; your score steams into the morning
dogs and birds teeter on the telephone line, singin’
please daddy please
be mine eight o’ clock, I spit inside your
mailbox, spit carefully your front lawn,
and we vied with strange, smiling orbs
around our heads
moonlight children unaware-
Wood paneling, and I have been told it is rude to stare.
Contrary, your eye knocks
the same hollow demeanor
which the ceiling regards the floor.
Audible collision of a man!
rocking chair knocks a kiss
the devil has known
crooked facial expression of love. Three courses
balanced by age. When it began,
if it will ever end