Spoonful: A Gathering of Stone Soup Poets

An extension of Cambridge's Stone Soup Poetry Venue.

Ry Frazier

Illustration by James Conant

Wretch And Wrench, Bomb And Blister

this cavity is more than the morose four a.m. phonecall
ridicule or a stunted growth in swaddling clothes (or
upset stomachs hammered into literal pieces).

in these ways i am building myself from whicker:
No instantaneous rewind of bottles emptied beneath
a healing clock-moon, a losing dart game aimed to
postpone your last or any call.

      I've asked and you have answered with roadmaps.

      to quote the somnambulist,
      like ten thousand before:
      a cavity is often more than bee stings and emptied cribs,
      reloads along the ocean's turmoil.
      I'll only beg a trick candle on this cake
      so eyes scratch hands, a slight startle in our

      groaning marble gods
      carved on top of tinfoil monuments,
      duller than
      skeleton keys forced into jail-cell doors,
      raw as gums that hum and bleed and hysterical
      like filled bellies screwed into the awful
      pink mess of drunk-for-christmas,
      drunk-for-new-year's, lucky-around-now.

      A smiling architect plays empty roulette in
      the burned out casino of each instant.

My cavity is more like your absence spread over
an hour's width of purpose & the constant follow of
ants toward dust. The slowed misery of a forceful,
opened evening.

      Is something like "Come home soon".