portion of the artwork for David McAleavey's poetry

Penguins are rare
David McAleavey

Hours and dinners drift by, this is normal, though occasional grilled
fennel with lamb stands out, or morning spent largely underwater.
Penguins are rare, at least for me, so when one flashed by, I burbled.

Bower birds would be great to see, too, if we could sneak so close. En-
dower us with gratitude
, an old hymn says, as I recall it.

Meniscuses model happiness: the cohesion of x exceeds,
again and always, the force driving x apart, and mounds it up.
Powerful stuff, that Physics class!

                                                                      Being an amateur’s okay,
apart from knowing data vaguely; as preacher I say, Watch. The.
Sea, that is, the Big Picture: tsunamis likely if ocean drops:
freeways clog at rush hour: things break when dropped.

                                                                                                                Poetry is not a
way of life, not life itself, but a spice, kind of. Makes for a good-
hearted manner, maybe, but even if it makes you bitter it’s something to
lay beside you, like a huge guitar, to tune, strum, embrace, and love.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 39 | Winter 2013