It falls from the sky, or from the northern red oak,

that used to shade my front lawn, is bigger

than a breadbox, barely, has no arms, legs,

wings. Round, it seems to glide, its skin

thinner than tree bark, thicker than leaves,

with a mouth that takes in whatever’s near.

More curious than fearful, I watch it move,

turn it, give it a gentle push. It sucks up

dead grass, moss, lichen. As I walk away,

a younger man comes towards me, twirls me,

pulls my back to his front and holds me close.

I succumb, melt into him, we float in a

warm sea. When I awake, I know what this

mouth creature is and I will always be hungry.
*Original music accompanying these poems were written by Steve Jones who is a composer, musician, songwriter, and teacher who lives in Kensington, MD. He has written two jazz musicals.

Joanne Rocky Delaplaine’s poems have previously appeared in Poet Lore, International Poetry Quarterly, Beltway Poetry Quarterly (featured poet, Walt Whitman issue and anti-war issues), The Northern Virginia Quarterly, and elsewhere. She is currently a co-director of the Café Muse, a poetry reading series in the Washington, metropolitan community.