Himself (& more)

by Sheila Murphy (March 2026)

Himself
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River had to be a pasture debunked. Like agreeable Richard who each night ventured to bed linens Hilton crisp and never mentioned again what daylight he told himself he knew. Meaning I think the one who faithfully lay still while he allowed his dreams to billow into silk as if to blot out the swish of willow reverie the staple of his marriage to Flora who fawned over him about his orchids about to reach maturity in the lifelong meantime between acts. Back to the river swollen beyond recognition by Flora or Richard himself as if conflated with the yarn yellow fields of crops outlining and outlasting destiny. Why not dance dizzily in successive frames of time resembling panels of cartoon they’d viewed as children unaware of what prompted belief a there there in the middle of a fictitious field. And who might play each role unfolding the de facto solo plight of anyone surrounding Richard in his long apron worn in their prefab greenhouse beside the river of a field.
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Good Golly Miss Molybdenum
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Consume legumes girl you’re needy and flush
With flushable holdings so let go
I know it’s a slow go glowing ritual
Just so know thy swollen self the posse
Of henbane proponents to quell motion
Thickness the ick of finding balance
Of the high beam a stoic pursuit
I thereby recommend moderation
Not quite fending for thyself in unending
Quest for shortcuts no template for success
That overrated mess of fame for those
Shirt tailing their way to derivative fame
Coarse as an un-plucked bay leaf far from soup
To sip and swallow wholesome to your health
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Letter to my Friend
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You type (UTEP*!) one-fingeredly.
Ingrid’s here near me We bemoan your injury
and cheer your healing, except,
having known frozen shoulder (worse than cold),
lament your ever having spent a moment unable
to reach a shirt you may have chosen.
May your man kiss the left-hand fingers
of the whole hand “hardly working.”
You’re king to me and all in the M column
of correspondents now receiving only partial messages
compared with your rarely pared-down versions
given your peacock fan of florid mind.
How I miss finding the handwritten missives
over decades of years. Yours for the glory of being
justly reversed by me.
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*University of Texas El Paso
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9:17
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Time to clock out of the duty mindset
In my mental reflex everything’s a job
But I lie here falling to stress dreams of
Something due I go to work on solutions
Wake up burdened and fatigued confused
What part of the dream is real I ask
Then decide absolutely nothing
The unconscious can be a viper sometimes
We’re not exactly friends don’t push it
I am too tired to think but not to err
On the side of conscientious objection
To Excel spread sheets posing solutions
Imposing answers I won’t recreate
And why for the love of God would I want to
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He Taught His Child Eyes
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He taught his child eyes to dance into adult
belief in his purity. He tricked each person
fluently until he told himself he could
relax at last and be himself.
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Small consolation to have swum hard against
the tide of their mistrust legitimate as winter.
He crossed the line. Feigned half bashful looks
until enough of his audience acquiesced.
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He felt himself be unattractive, winced
as he felt criticized, then diagnosed any resistance
as pathology. Perceived himself, his views
as the gold standard others had yet to learn.
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His smothered anger remained through adulthood
until the child could die no more.
He fingered his book of rules and poured that cement
into the grooves that became his fate.
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Trees
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I was half listening to trees just prior
to the nap in view of two broad eucalypi
whose leaves relaxed each whisper
that shaded sleep and tamped down
my fear of darkness behind closed eyes
steeped in thought the trees would not receive
although I believe their warm familiar holds
still visible from the hill I climbed
to watch the branches trill
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Granite Granted
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She told me she does not take things
for “granite.” Granted, the source code course
corrects even when not prompted.
I romp through lessons keeping track
of the racket this is. Flip the thing
over its ever ready (Reverdy) head-over-
heels pressed to the wall of happen
stance shirking a host ration sprawled
on an otherwise flat plane due to dis-
regarding uneven pavement and
that humidity so very much left.
A heft of spring twirled around the bling.
Don’t offer anything I haven’t.
I won’t taste the trap.
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