The apes play hide and seek in the woods.
Jenny complains bitterly,
her morning walks ruined by cries of “I see you.”
And “You’re It!”
Meanwhile, barn owls roost in the barn,
keeping yellow eyes out for red foxes.
Every single person at the grange voted but
there was no majority. Too many
persuasive arguments from both sides.
“They frighten the children.”
“Think of the tourist potential.”
The folks congregate on the steps, perplexed.
When faced with a conundrum, the farmer pauses.
The origin of the apes was unclear but they all knew that
thousands of cranes would return in the spring.
I’ve Come To Think
I’ve come to think that God
is a moody black woman,
and careless as Yahweh,
Loins like rivers meeting,
buttocks like mountains,
aureoles like low lying hills,
nipples like black oaks.
Pigheaded, sly, prone to
spurts of baffling anger,
jets of appalling love,
whirlpools of cathexis.
Alec Solomita has published fiction and poetry in Eclectica, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, Ireland’s Southword Journal, and many other publications. Most recently, his work has appeared in theNewerYork, Turk’s Head Review, and MadHatLit, and several of his poems will be published in the forthcoming Fulcrum: an international anthology of poetry and aesthetics. He lives in Somerville, Mass.