Night Shift By Asa Boxer

The owl skirrs for mouse
and in his gut, he turns her
inside-out. The bat weaves

through the criss-cross trees,

wings upon her sonar pings
to trap the bug and feel him sing.

Owl, wise anatomist, studies

the tissues, then spits the gist:
the shag and bone of what exists.

And bat, dread acrobat, flips

the forest upside-down, and all
the creatures underground,

the shrew, the hedgehog and the mole

fall out like rattled soldiers
from their tunnelled holes.

The Sisters of Murphy by Asa Boxer

When I’d no juice left, already cried uncle,

at rock bottom, looking for comfort;

one loosened upon me her furious craw

of indigestibles, another arrested me with guilt.

One, laser-eyed, hurled an ashtray

full of ashes flicked through a night of waiting-up,

while another re-enacted, in voices and postures,

a play to catch the conscience of the king.

If you’re sedentary, loyal as a dog. If you must

stay where you’re unwanted, a family man…

these Sisters will make a raging sibling of you,

and Brother with Sister, conceive Monsters

of Murphy that bring alive the broomstickand

hobby-horses of your cowboys-’n-indians.

It’ll take the nurse, the nanny and the marm,

those generals of the schoolyard theatre, to disarm

your horse-play. They’ll tell you that, however dressed,

sticks are not horses, hearts are not wood.

They’ll grumble that Murphy tied the blindfold on Love.

Attend to the broomsticks. Attend to each room.

The Sisters of Murphy will be visiting soon.