A Picnic with the Devil

A poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class.

I can still recall the way

like spring flowers sprouting

before ancient gravestones

the basil fragment had triumphed

over her lift incisor and

declared it his land of permanence.

We sat on an old bedsheet

in the grass, my mother-in-law,

my bride, and I, and a

straw basket that’d once housed

steaming sweet rolls and soft

apple dumplings in her womb.

Moments earlier she’d borne the

bad seed, that ill-fated garlic bread,

of which my elder eagerly

and explicitly took part.

I’d been forced to look on

as the crone had her way

with the loaf, the last of

my pittance so carelessly

inhaled by the only one

who could replenish the stocks.

So watch her I did, indeed,

fiddling with my fingerless gloves

as the afternoon grew stale

and the evening had made

fools of us both.

Author's Note

My classmates and I were supposed to write a poem from the point of view of a person who has something he/she is afraid to say. Essentially, we had to create a character, which I love doing.

Hope you enjoyed it.