January 19, 2017
Kim D. Bailey,
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January 21, 2017

Micropoetry by Wren Tuatha | #thesideshow

Lobster-Eating Bogeyman

Loud crackle.
Lobster appendages
sacrificed for the spectacle
of pink on liquid butter.
A snap, like fingers hailing a cab
in your night on the town.

I would be the lobster.
I require brutality and a napkin.

Midnight and Indigo butterfly
looping in tangents
after loosing one of four wings,
a plane coming in on three engines,
troubling the tower.

embedded in the flower garden,
spokes in rot
where Good Earth’s embrace
betrays, like a mouth.

Swallow hard on the lobster.
Leave no witnesses.

White Paper Poetree

The paper this is written on
holds experiences. You never think
to ask. The trees, the centuries, the violence.
Ripping and bleach. Slaves and
workers who don’t know ease.

Flipping ocean waves and seeping petrol.

White and clean, cleansed with
poetry so tidy and ordered
the world could never be raw.

All paper is mute, only crackling in hand
in the way of bowing pulp pines smacked
by atmosphere. The ink lets through
certain stories and some news.
And under our objects, pretty paper,
plastic and cotton, work slaves
we don’t see.

While Jean Doesn’t Write

While Jean doesn’t write,
seditious phrases make their escape
to parallel dimensions where
mothman aliens hunt and gather them,
eat them silently and then
look through at us knowingly.
This phenomenon is entirely
Jean’s fault.

While Jean doesn’t write,
17 wars that we know of continue
like a second day of rain,
race relations in America harden into
pre-1970’s pessimism
and 2/3 of her neighbors fail to recycle.
Indeed, for every day that
Jean doesn’t write,
another Republican actor runs
for office.

While Jean doesn’t write,
her lifelong friends don’t change.
Her adult children do what they will.


I can only speak of this in simile.
Your room looks like a movie set—
The air, the plants, the dishes…

Facsimiles. A museum reproduction
of the space you haunted in life.

And a pass by your door is like
asthma. But in truth the tearing of
you from me is like nothing else.

Death is like death, made of could-
haves and should-haves and calls for
another take and the slam of time.

And time is only known in metaphor,
some uninvested producer who will
dilute my rage in rewrites until,
years from now, when I sell your
saga to Hollywood, I will speak of
you as a character I dreamed up.


The difference is apparent.
At your party I am angled toward the wall,
The one that wears the door.

You serve straight privilege like punch.
But I said what I said–no rewind;
I don’t ask for a cup.

Attracted opposites show pictures
Of the little blessings in pink and blue
That just happen because they’re in love.

About the Author:

Former Artist-in-Residence at Heathcote Center, Wren Tuatha’s poetry has appeared in The Baltimore Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Loch Raven Review, Digges’ Choice, The Green Revolution, Red Fez, Winamop and the anthology Grease and Tears. A screenwriter, Wren is best known for HippieChickDiaries.com. She won a Young Authors Award in Poetry from The Courier Journal. She and her partner, author/activist C.T. Lawrence Butler, now herd goats on a mountain in California.