Three Poems by Jessie Carty

MUFF
On certain fowl, they are the feathers clustered on each side of the head. Perhaps from the dutch mof (mitten).

As clothing–a tunnel for the hands. See Little House on the Prairie. From Middle French moufle.

In sports it is to miss a catch, to bungle. From Medieval Latin: muffula (a fur lined glove).

When used as slang: the covering hair or the internal channel.

Think decoration, think warmer, think hot potato, think clever euphemism that is a double entendre which boasts a double edged sword.

If seen in a dream then girls you have good luck looming.  But boys? Be warned of this image for you it means your girl has found that good fortune elsewhere and you’ll soon be cold, not cool, ice-edged.

 

In the Mail Room, Making Copies, Again
Have I ever held an axe? If not, then, how can I question weight? The only weapons I borrow have blades more like grass that can nick you if you do it just right.  But, finding the right angle is difficult. Have you ever tried giving yourself a paper cut on purpose? Maybe these minor weapons are never enough to be comparable to a razor; but, could they be enough to make you consider the causality of the paper cutter and your hand oh so very near.

 

Short Order
He loved the names: sunny side up, over easy,
but he could only scramble. Hollandaise. Bolognese.
Mayonnaise. He didn’t have the chemistry for it;
couldn’t even calculate the right dash on which
to rest his light to dark toaster dial. He could
eat though and build sandwiches, fruit cocktail.
He was a master of the non-cooked, the mixing
and/or piling of ingredients which made him more
like a construction worker than an architect.

 

Best,
Jessie Carty