Three Poems
Christina E. Petrides
Naptime Ritual
Stiff woven fibers pop
Beneath determined claws.
A small pink bristled tongue
Combs sandy brindled fur.
With a great jagged yawn,
The plump housecat curls
And hums herself to sleep.
Unlicensed
Angry shadows
Drive down
Smoke-crowded promenades
To maim strangers
Shatter common peace
Cut to weeping ribbons of police tape
And makeshift blankets
To fan fears of greater dangers
Blowing up
Rush Hour
Horns—deep, light, and piercing—
Burst through the blur of evening
Against the cram school windows
Where uniformed students sit
Muttering over vocabulary books,
Trying to absorb strange foreign words.
Frustrated adults drive homeward,
Their tired and wrinkled minds
On those uncompleted mundane duties
Left behind or waiting uneasily at home.
Christina E. Petrides is an expatriate American who lives and works on a small Pacific island where all the magpies and the palm trees are imported, but the rice wine is indigenous and delicious.
