<i><b>Wicked Alice Poetry Journal

Caroline Morrell

  
Fledgling  
   Fledgling with a good name. Fledging locked in 
    the body. Fledging but also that of a Satan. Fledging warns you “do not 
    think me an object of seduction.” Fledging in her home. Fledging not in her 
    home but rather in her “garden.” Fledging gaining access to both her 
    inheritance and her body. Fledging by these four: burn mark, crater, robber 
    and thorn. No fledging nor sound of one. A fledging, and I will struggle to 
    remain one. Fledging marries the sigh. Fledging runs his hands through 
    quicksand. Fledging councils us on flame-life. Fledging in the next step of 
    her life, rips them to pieces, rips open a particle. Fledging reared some 
    sons and performed a daughter. In a hostile world, one fledgling is a 
    soon-to-be husband. Fledging juts about, has a red link to the nation.

Pantoum for Feeling a Bit Ashamed

The mess on the hill was what it was: Well water.
Is he teasing Jill, his nifty problem,
whose ascent was whittled and unhappy? “I went
up the hill dragging a gaudy stick”
Is he teasing Jill, his nifty problem,
or pretending she might have some rival?
Up the hill dragging a gaudy stick, decency licks in
and sounding jealous, a poisoned herd that no longer thinks
or pretending she might have some rival?
Everything delighted her: milk in bottles
and sounding jealous, a poisoned herd that no longer thinks
but drinks from windy pails of water
Everything delighted her: milk in bottles
he brought home to bed. To mend his head? Now
and then drinks from windy pails of water.
“I tumble after, as he could caper” sick timber
he brought home to bed. To mend his head? Now
with vinegar and brown paper
“I tumble after, as he could caper” sick timber
that will splinter, that makes our world
with vinegar and brown paper
he interrupts the fire “I broke my crown”
with vinegar and brown paper
that will splinter, that makes our world
he interrupts the fire “I broke my crown”
just as Jack and Jill went up the hill, full pail
that will splinter, that makes our world
the mess on the hill. What it was: Well water.

Misery Makes its Ascent within the Easy Reach of Anyone

We know the earth
we know it
as imprisoned
courtesy of its line: the volcano is long.
Messengers were often
sent to gather vapour;
numerous messengers
came midriff.
In such cases
the wife
the aunt
the fruity mineral
climbs 11,000 feet
to the top of Etna
and sees
instead of smoke, a red and bruising sunrise.
It is said
that—
Wait. Hasn’t the aunt a large, carroty grove?
A knockoff niece?
It is said that she is like her
mother; it is said
that we are a match
for them. The stone is
dull. The stone will
not spurt. That we liken
things to their length.
They were daily admonished.
We were
long absent.

Caroline Morrell is a recent recipient of the Devine Fellowship for Creative Writing (Larissa Szporluk, Jane Meade & Lynn Emanuel judging); Ohio Arts Council Individual Artist Fellowship for Poetry; and the Cora Owlett Latzer Award from The Academy of American Poets. Most recently she has been nominated for the Rona Jaffe Award in Poetry. Her poems have appeared in: Artful Dodge, Black Clock,Connecticut Review, River City, Runes and Salzburg Review.