Bennett Clifford

"what did you do at school today”

is mundane, ornery, and worthless

as it abruptly zooms out of my parent’s mouth

a powder keg, waiting to jump-start an awkward pause in conversation

"well", i said

i came to school at the flashpoint of sunrise

ever ready to do battle with mythical creatures

the world of figures, neatly diagrammed with numbers and symbols and x

and the triangular tesselations of monsters that lie ahead

to the world of king phillip, who could only find green socks

and my very eager master, who just served us nuts

Krebs, the goat-devil, with his ignominious cycle

the head of the dead pig staring back through formaldehyde

i finish my conquests and move on, to the house of

memorization, a charging boar. who was pasha of transoxania in 1304?

a sphinx of questions, those who fail them are cast

into the pit of Asmodeus, demon of wrath

while a proud italian stands howling above

the final is the last stage

the seventh circle

adjective, preposition, verb and conjunction

the master of hell- slave driving the damned

into long compositions of anger and pain

alliteration, consonance, assonance and rhyme

the cold, sweet plums no refuge from the flames

the eagle sweeping down from his cliffside post

the sweet sound of the clock chimes- acquitting me

i think long and hard inside my head—and then respond

“nothing”