F. J. Norton Poet Prose Poetry

At the Picnic

AT THE PICNIC

The friends of my five wives
Have this nefarious aura
Of having shared a secret.
Their eyes lowered
But when I ask them
What for
They only glance at each other
And smile,
Which only increases my desire 
To know.

Something they did
Long ago,
Heedless of the consequences
That left
Such an indefinable bitter palatableness.

Is that the explanation?
For the way
They rest their breasts
In the palms of each other’s hands,
Their eyes closed 
In the winter heat?









Come tell me
Or give me a hint.
Trace a word or just a single letter
In the wine
Spilled on the table.

No reply from any of them
With the waning sunlight
The breeze of the evening
On their faces.

They are freely drinking
And saying nothing
Dazed and mystified as they are
By their treacherous feminine power
To give
And to take away happiness
As if their heads
Were crawling with serpents.

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