Honeymoon & Prey | by Kenneth Ryan

Honeymoon

It was at check-in
you sensed a change --
in pressure? I don’t know,
but the blizzard buried
our resort in the woods.
The shops closed.
The guests scattered.
The clamorous slots silenced.
This grand, imposing hotel
was ours. We were imperious.
Then frightened.
Run, Danny! You warned.
You’re in danger, Mrs. Torrance!
I cried.
We were hungry. Our
reservation canceled.
We gathered around 
the lone surviving croupier
like a campfire, found
the dice unsolvable.
I drew your hot bath
in the absurd jacuzzi
and joined. But,
this concerns the storm,
how it broke the trees,
erased the roads,
oppressed our window
with its slanting strength,
its elements still
haunting the world
as rainwater,
a descending fog,
or the breeze
that lifts the gray smoke
from my cigar
on the back deck
where I sit
in the sun,
if you want to believe it.

Prey

You could trust your palms
to lambs, your

lips to fish,
your heart to sirens

or sea snails.
Now who’s being naïve?

You were thoughtfully raised
from birth

to appeal to the mouth.
You appear sumptuous

to the world’s most ravenous,
ready for harvest.

The low moon insists
it is eyes season.

The prized tongue
curses the syndicate

of blackbirds
already tilting,

cleaving the air.