Recent Work By Lisa Cihlar

Swampy Woman is called an Alpha-bitch.
Then she is called an Alpha-Bitch grinning,
with canines flashing. She counts to five
on the rings on her fingers before she attacks.
But that is enough time to absolve him.

She seldom gets angry. Sometimes she gets
revenge. Just for fun. She is the brightest
star in the constellation. Moths gather
flitting white wing talcum on her black
coat and hat. Feline fur. Canine, too.

Spiral

By Lisa Cihlar

Poem

This is the day that pain made. A spiral shelled snail creeping over shattered glass shards from a mayonnaise jar, dropped by a boy child. It spilled ants and sand and twigs across the north-side algae green walkway which is always slippery and more so in the rain. This is the day that pain made. A spiral shell edging along the blacktop where winter salts, spread by the man, have yet to succumb to spring showers. This is the day that pain made. A spiral inching under emerging spilt milk hosta leaves where the woman sprinkled diatomaceous earth. This is the misty slime trail that pain left.