by Matthew Chamberlin
The neighbors knew.
They howled, thirsty,
crept into my garage at night
and fashioned dioramas of my dreams--
a bleak mirage
of sticks and twists cohered
one to the next with childish haste--
then sat across the street and wept.
I’d overslept, erased the magic.
Filling once again the pudding bowl I left it
on the threshold--after dark
they scurried over, flapping
under bed-sheets held aloft,
bare office legs and naked toes--
together sat upon my grass,
held sweet hands
and ate the simple dish.
* * *
Matthew Chamberlin says: I am a professor at James Madison University in Virginia, and this is my first published poem. I have work forthcoming in Apex.
What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?
I'm inspired to write poetry that has to do with fantasy because that's mostly just how my mind works, I'm confronted with something mundane and immediately imagine it having some really odd, unsettling, outlandish, and far-flung significance.