Val Morehouse

Faces of natives turn inward
like talk in uncertain throats.

Small replicas of life eclipse
...

Like a lover he enters my life,
carrying his dark purpose into the bedroom.
Each thing opens to him like a map.
...

There is something raw in the taking,
an ordinary sadness that
blackens in the bottom of the cup.
Here a fly is swatted,
...

Who am I? Why, you’re Mama.
No, I am not. I am your daughter.
Stop foolin’ me!
...

_________For William, who performed this ritual...


Sealed with gases vivid as a flock of monarchs,
...

Inside the morning this heart is a gong
announcing your presence.
See? This skin of mine is but a sheaf of
pale wheat, ripened to nourish another’s need.
...

With knives he carves my woman’s flesh
into new peaks and valleys, cuts
out the center of rebellion,
that audacity of dysfunction,
...

….“We hoped to gently persuade you book-review lovers to head online
in search of our missing Book Review page…” The Contra Costa Times.
...

Dawn's red cap early
over silver spoor tracking
dewprints of the moon.
...

____version from a traditional slave spiritual,
circa 1860’s...
...

In dim coolness, underground,
punctuated by the dropp and whine of the elevator
I cut open boxes and stock tomorrow’s shelves.
...

We will know and remember with
the inferno in our hearts,
the day a devil’s passport was stamped:
“Return to sender.”
...

Fifty generations of moles contracted business
amid this grassy wood. Turreted trees provided all needs,
an easy Eden shingled green to lighten heavy
Junes with dew threading silver
...

“It is also well known within the nuclear power industry, that minor accidents occur on a regular basis due to human error or purposeful sabotage.”___ Kevin Briggs, Director, U.S. Disaster Preparedness Institute,2001.


Complacency is its trigger. “Clean” its alias. Money its game.
...

Sit down little one, and I’ll tell you a story, just
hand over my deck of wicked stepmothers scary,
spells, curses, schemes, and no-money-down deals from
ordinary folks who embezzle the poor and unfortunate.
...

A building built like a blockhouse is
my office. Air-conditioned. Climate controlled.
No number on the door.
Of course. No one knows where
...

Dusk, an evening star...
firefly in the garden,
July moon rising.
...

Crackle of sun stranded
in blue glass she waits in that
white house so old
her breath haunts the cold
...

Warm the petaled sun
budding from each winter breath
a crocus of light.
...

Gold of sunrise
green leaves gilded by frost, and
pumpkins like money.
...