This is a poem by Lois Marie Harrod.
That day the marshmallow peep hovered
over our votary candles, a Holy Sprite,
with sugar crystals dangling from her brow
like tiny sweat dice,
we were playing a new parlor game
from polar regions—
change one letter, you said icily
and average became overage—
nothing left of marriage
but the wrecked carriage that wrought us here.
On cue, wheel became heel,
door a boor, rash a dash.
The dog was another natter
since the average age of a pug
is twelve to fifteen years
and for the last decade ours had been a rug
gracing our deck or living room
depending on the sun.
Oh, the lives, the lies of loves and livers—
gods, dogs, confections of doves—
but better you here, my dear,
that than the Californian musician
who became a desert
after he married my sister—
Sonoran not snoring,
desert not dessert,
her antic and always angry
Seems he didn’t like the way
his Poulenc’s Flute Sonata
and toplofty left.
Lois Marie Harrod’s 17th collection Woman is forthcoming from Blue Lyra in February 2020. Her Nightmares of the Minor Poet appeared in June 2016 from Five Oaks; her chapbook And She Took the Heart appeared in January 2016; Fragments from the Biography of Nemesis (Cherry Grove Press) and the chapbook How Marlene Mae Longs for Truth (Dancing Girl Press) appeared in 2013. A Dodge poet, she is published in literary journals and online ezines from American Poetry Review to Zone 3. She teaches at the Evergreen Forum in Princeton and at The College of New Jersey. Link to her online work is found on www.loismarieharrod.org.