Christine Scanlon     


Sugar Fuzzed a Fungus Sweet

Fresh Cut Flowers and Soup in an Envelope


Sugar Fuzzed a Fungus Sweet


Sugar fuzzed a fungus sweet on my sweet
A basket baby chocolate 
Chipped head and a smooth-foul stench

My sweet baby carries wood for me sometimes
His legs are strong and amber
His ribs are bananas

And like Jesus he smelled nice
Like mold and sugar
Rats also followed him


Fresh Cut Flowers and Soup in an Envelope


Sometimes cans are easier to grab 
And everyone ignores the box. Poor box.

Thorns and angles sing there and adorn
the unadored box.

No one likes to be reminded of sharp edges.
The sponsor often says this 
and cries and cries.
The sponsors say this
 while trying to rhyme cracker with what crunches.

Leave it for the bigots to wipe the slate clean.
I bring the pudding and then I really
was asking for it-- a single circle 
a (canned) clarity
not this hierarchy of boxes.

On the wall that belongs to the pots and pans 
mirrors and ribbons are tools like those 
scarves and papers, pins and hats--
like the ships painted on cracked plaster
and the cracks that are cobwebs and move gently 
across and from  some small spiders housed under wilted postcards.

This is where the marionettes play 
in the corner  
In their leap-play 
They know all about the two-step


Christine Scanlon is the author of the poetry collection A Hat on the Bed (Barrow Street Press). Her work is forthcoming from or has appeared in Coconut, Best American Poetry 2005, White Stag, and elsewhere. She is the co-curator for the Brooklyn reading series, Readings in Color.