Larry Narron

When the glacier slid
two coins of ice over my eyes,
I found them too heavy
to make heads or tails of
simply by trying to blink them
from my lids like the residue
of a dream, & yet I hoped
this new age was only a nightmare,
for I seemed to wake
& strike at the walls of my cave
till I scattered the herds
of mammoths I'd painted
with berries to story the doorway.
Now, only smartphone
kiosks encircle my moons.
I cower at daybreak, blinded
by sunlight, my toes curling over
the edge of a curb on a street in Ventura.
If only this star could crease
& fold my skeleton into
the one-time voluptuous
curves of my now-origami
woman. From the gutter,
she'd snatch a sailing
harmonica, silver
as a fish, bite into the brain
freeze of metal on molars.
Wincing, she'd tap one end
on the concrete till it drained
of the blues it would have swallowed
on its maiden voyage
from the frozen shores of prehistory.
She'd put her mouth
to its gill & blow
until it drank again, this time
the blood it scraped from her lips.


Larry Narron grew up in San Diego County and graduated from the University of California, Berkeley. His poems have appeared in Phoebe, The Brooklyn Review, The Boiler, and elsewhere. They've been nominated for the Best of the Net and Best New Poets.