Two Poems by R L Swihart

The Immigrant

The snare can be easily drawn: a frame within a frame, a mauve-pink storybook opening onto a sea of rolling green hills.  The newlyweds atop the highest hill, wedding-cake close, gazing—cliché or no—at the sickle moon

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Waiting is impossible: competing narratives and scribbled margins.  Cutting a half-inch from the stems, she places the daffodils in a simple vase and pours in the cool water.  Within an hour: white stars opening to yellow centers

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Eternal life is death and Egon renders it perfectly: Sleeping Beauty, two claws, and a chessboard blanket

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