The Literary Review
TEMPTING
The couple crosses the street
between the two white lines
pretending to keep them safe
while I sit in the car waiting,
waiting for them to reach
my hood where beneath
the horn coils for a strike
prompted by my hand
caressing the inside
of the steering wheel.
I feel like a little kid
sneaking up behind someone
and jabbing them in the ribs
as I scream and laugh
when they shudder beneath
my hands, and screams
shriek over my amusement.
I so want to honk the horn
and cry laugh at the couple
crossing hand in hand
only feet away from my car.
- Diane Webster
MY LIPS NEVER MOVE
The dark dummy stands
on my left shoulder,
the light dummy stands
on my right shoulder,
between the two I am
the ventriloquist for both.
“You’re not doing a good enough job.”
“Yes, I am. I’m doing this job
better than anyone else can.”
“Nobody cares what you’re doing or feeling.”
“People do care about me
and what’s going on.”
“You don’t make a difference
in anyone’s life.”
“Yes, I do. People appreciate
that I care about them
and let them know it.”
I am the consummate ventriloquist;
my lips never move.
- Diane Webster
SEAWARD
Rusty cannon pointed
seaward looks like
a barnacle-laden bottle
tossed in the ocean
to deliver its message
over decades of seasick
swells ebbing and flowing –
a castaway’s castaway
yearning for shore,
for discovery,
for rescue
instead of a statue
staring out to sea
like a widow waiting.
- Diane Webster
WINDOWS DEAD
Two windows – dead now
with plywood nailed
across their openness
like heavy coins placed
atop dead people’s eyes
to keep them shut
and to pay the ferry man
to transport them
to the other side.
No longer windows to the soul
behind bricks showing individual
initiative to warp straight lines
and to crack wrinkled mortar
as the building decays
into inside darkness
searching escape through chinks.
- Diane Webster
IN A PICKLE
When we were kids,
my older sister bugged
me enough I removed
a whole sweet pickle
from the jar and placed
it between the sheets
of my sister’s bed
far enough down
so when she stretched
out her feet, they would
touch this cold, dead thing,
and she’d jerk her feet up
or better yet jump
out of bed; a scream or yelp
would have tickled my ears.
I laugh about it even now
fifty years later and wonder
if I can get away with it
again.
- Diane Webster
RUST SQUEALS
Like an old couple holding hands
the gate and latch defend
the yard year after year
until rust squeals hinges.
The gate wobbles and topples
as its grip loosens on the latch,
and weeds wind tendrils
like prisoners’ fingers
through wire fencing
and ignores the outstretched palm
of the empty latch.
Season after season the gate
buries under dust to dust
rust to rust; a skeleton
of wire flakes decay
like dates on a calendar
marked off with an X.
- Diane Webster