Lisa Bellamy
Goliath
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
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