Thursday, February 17, 2011


I’m not the one.

There is naked air falling
over the rough ground,
frost-heaved into longing
and regret, the sorrow

of small birds, plump
and frosty-beaked.

There are wolves, rough
scavengers, grizzled,
thin, silent as lost pups,
unbirthed through
the hungry dark months.

There is an empty place
in the land, that hollow
where we put
what we thought we had;

the earth has eaten love.

Rachel Westfall
February 17, 2011

Monday, February 14, 2011

The secret lives of goblins

We rattle our pikes and sigh
thin goblin sighs
in green and brown,
tired of the weight our helms,
fatigued by these codpieces
of beaten leather.

We hope you don’t notice
the rich soil under my nails,
a telltale sign
of my secret gardening habit, nor
the softness of the tunic
my companion wears,
chewed and sewn so lovingly
by his dear, sweet goblin bride.

We rattle our pikes and sigh
whistling goblin sighs
in red and puce, then
we lower our points and prepare
to ululate ferociously
as we charge pell mell
down the weather-beaten hill.

Rachel Westfall
February 14, 2011