Venus
by S. I. Brubaker
The suff’ring sun has no more strength to greet you, O let it swell on the hotbed of the sea, Encased in the valley of gold-green foaméd waves, Enthroned in dance, and writhing to be free. The pris’ner waves a-licking at the boat hulls In a slow debate of “which to swallow next?” Slumbering, the overturned beneath them, Waiting for the day they sail again. Pharisee seagulls preaching their contentment Crying good deeds loud above the waves— The suff’ring sun descends into her bower Making love unto the new day and its dawn, Hoping to awake and find them gone.
A poet, lover of trees, and splasher-in-creeks, S. I. Brubaker has a deep love of story and word, mythos and logos. She heads the Kingfisher Quarterly, which she founded with a mission to publish excellent poetry, fiction, and nonfiction by aspiring young writers, work that serves as a signpost pointing further in and further up. She lives in a little hollow in the farmland of Pennsylvania through which a creek flows and occasional small dust devils make life interesting.
