');pd.close();}else{if(!omw)pWin[wp].location.href=imgs[0];}if((acT&&acT>0)||(slT&&slT>0&&isSL)){if(pWin[wp].document.body)pWin[wp].document.body.onunload=function(){if(acH)window.clearInterval(acH);if(slH)window.clearInterval(slH);}}if(acT&&acT>0)acH=window.setTimeout("pWin["+wp+"].close()",acT*1000);if(pu&&pu!=""){pWin[wp].blur();window.focus();}else pWin[wp].focus();document.MM_returnValue=(il&&il!="")?false:true; }
The 2River View 15.4 (Summer 2011)

Lisa Bellamy


Although the lord did anoint
        the shepherd boy for kingship
and glory, and far be it from me
        to second-guess Him, my heart
goes out to Goliath, Canaanite head banger,
        spear-carrier for the duration,
predictable as hummus, as his only girlfriend
        once said in frustration—but a guy
who secretly fed crowds of hungry cats
        mewling behind his tent,
unsure what he wanted to do
        when he mustered out,
till one dawn he stood sleepily,
        knee-deep in crab grass in the valley of Elah,
dutifully shouting at his adversary
        on orders from his commanding officer,
sure that he—seven feet tall, bronze-armored,
        each footstep an explosion in the grass,
a guy who bench-pressed 225 pounds,
        recalcitrant cowlick in his mother's favorite picture,
almost a short-timer now—
        could easily handle a face-off
with a pipsqueak packing a sling shot.

Montcalm Point

Sauntering with my husband
        through a pine forest
                north of Lake George,

one early May morning
        birds twittering, etcetera,
                wanting nothing more

than a pleasant ramble,
        but I trail away mid-sentence,
                my mind suddenly a cloudless sky;

aware of its increasing forgetfulness
        creating larger and larger
                holes in my consciousness,

black holes, I am afraid,
        that will devour me—
                I remember last week

the doctor called my bones "porous"—
        I wonder if I will begin
                breaking apart, dissolving;

if it is time for that to happen
        to me: the four elements returning,
                as they say, to the mother.

Lisa Bellamy studies poetry with Philip Schultz at The Writers Studio, where she also teaches. Her poems have appeared in Cimarron Review, Massachusetts Review, The Sun, and TriQuarterly. In 2008, she won the Fugue Poetry Prize. contact