Clarissa Grunwald

Corpses for Frankenstein

I’ll collect pebbles for teeth,
oak leaves, and feathers that fall
under swing sets. Where do people go
 
to find dust these days? In the swamps
where alligators drift under tree roots
and turn into logs, the stones
 
are worshipping Medusa as their goddess.
When wolves lament at the moon
they catch the sun in their teeth
 
and bite down like it’s an overripe
nectarine with the juice dripping
into California pine forests.

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Electronic Father

The pink girl is woven tulle, she’s glass,
she’s sheer, silvery, wilted silken,
an open book shorn
of paper. The pink girl is a paper doll.
 
Momma married the android man,
hands that crank the lids from pickle jars.
His chin is rough with sawdust, his teeth
straight and cool as window panes.
His frown is built from wooden
wheels, and chains. Crunching
numbers and measuring skirt-lengths,
he creaks on by.
 
In the schoolyard the boys paint
themselves black and blue, conjure
swords from fence posts, shrugging
off their ties, the years, and gears
they’re running towards.
 
Their footprints trace
the edge-seams of the old woman’s yard.
She’s got a rocking chair that wobbles
side-to-side. One more year and one more year,
the boys grow old and disappear.
 
Spin her, spin her.
Spin ‘er, spinner, spinster--
Her backyard scrapyard’s silk and rust.
She sits, her needles clicking,
knitting clocks, and dolls, and dust.



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Clarissa Grunwald is a junior undergrad at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. She has previously been published in BlazeVOX, Drunk Monkeys, and Fickle Muses, and is currently working as a student blogger for IES abroad. You can follow her on twitter @cmgrunwald or send her an email at clarissag342@gmail.com.