Sandra Meek

    Hush grunt, hush muck-flush lungs
    Hush guts, unspun; hush skull,

Thumbs gun-numb,

brush unfurls us
fur’s musk. Such clubs-

flush luck, such full-
cups’ glut                

musts duck hunts, justs
culls, bucks truck-slung,

strung.     Glut,
sun’s burn’ll turn us

dust: bull. Hush,
u. Kudzu’s murmur               

trumps rust’s mum,
curls dumps’ junk—lugnuts-

lush. Up-bluff, church

lunch—spuds, chuck,
punch. Bugs’ churn                   

wrung, Truth’s sum’s
sung: Sun, U null

sulfur’s chuff; Ur bush
burns but buds, full

thrum—Sun, U pluck
us, U gut us; Sun,

unshun us: burn
us lush.

December Decree (Secret)

Sandra Meek

Esteemed Gentlemen, well-versed Reverends, feted
new Elect—Here’s the scheme: we’ll nether the
            best; wedge

the rest. There’s precedent here: the settled West, streets
we’ve needle-strewn kettle-deep; tenements

we felled, resplendent new dens we there
erected. Let the press delve deeper, ferret the news;

let the seers “express themselves.” The dregs
we swept—let them keep the crèches, the steepled

temples, the sleeved serpents’ velvet speech. The sheep
revere the shepherds, yes? Let them sleep.

Whether rebels mewl, vent, beset the streets, the fervent
herd’s credence renders them screech. Tell them,

except we be the trees, the shelterbelt, the yews’
            screen hedged
between breezes we’ve fledged, they’ll be defenseless.

Present them the desert Reserves. The sewers
we’ve brewed them. Resettle them. Except the
            Help; them,

heel. Tell them: Dress the hen. Fetch dessert. Hem
the bedsheets, press them even. Segmented, then,
            they’ll need

referees; hence, we’ll steer. Lest they be wrench, we 
            need clench
the wheel. Whenever we teeter, Gentlemen,
          remember they’re

Jezebels, engendered beef. Eyes peeled: they’re
                tenderfeet, even
the cleverest—yet revenge ever pends. Lest we be next:

screw them.