Yoko Versus the Light Eaters: An Abandoned Project
Jane Kistner
FIRST POEM
The sun has sunk low beneath the horizon.
Across the land, owls nestle softly into their homes,
Rattlesnakes finish the day’s hunt,
And somewhere, far below ground, a shiny green beetle
Rests quietly in the soft sediment.
The sky’s dark blanket was all-consuming,
Except for the holes we call stars.
Each one like an eye of some great being
Staring down from the heavens.
Watching.
Queen Anne’s Lace—
The rabbit’s corsage—
Spattered about the forest floor.
Small creatures walked slow,
Their conical earlobes eavesdropping
On earthworm’s conversations.
The lush womb of the shrubbery
Holes deep underground holding bones of the dead
Like some forbidden catacomb.
SECOND POEM
Her hair was black
It smelled of moss and a father’s embrace.
It shone in the moonlight
Swung slowly back and forth like
A vine in the wind.
It was thick—
You couldn’t grasp all of it with one hand.
She was like a stone fountain
And Eucalyptus tea—
Calm for those who could bring themselves to be.
She wore long white skirts
And big sweaters.
She loved to walk across mud
To feel the earth seep between her toes
And to speak with the creatures below her.
Yoko spoke with the beetles and the flies
For hours.
THIRD POEM
The sky was overcast by a thick woolen coat of clouds.
Wind cut through the forest like a dull knife, burning.
It stung your nose and made your throat cold.
The looming trees
Resembling bundles of wire and cloth
Shuddered softly in the breeze.
Yoko ran across the grass, the grooves in her feet
Squeaking against the sharp blades.
It began to rain
Thick droplets striking her cheeks.
She smiled in the water,
Indulging in each small bead of coolness
That grazed her teeth.
She slid across the green algae
Falling to her knees in the mud.
Laughing hysterically, she pulled herself up
Brushing the thick lumps of mud off her knees.
Her feet on the ground,
Yoko flies across the universe.
FOURTH POEM
It is April
And all is gray.
The rain never stops.
Yoko is quiet now
Her laughter has stopped.
The worms stay below their earth
Fighting their natural urge to
Crawl to the surface
When they hear the soft
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Of the rain above their small pink heads.
The ghost of Yoko’s mother
Thinks of her
Alone in the woods.
Her long black hair saturated with
Cool rain.
Tears drip slowly down Yoko’s cheeks.
Its pace is inconsistent with that of the rain.
Her soft pink lips
Flatten against each other
Drawing a thin rose line across her porcelain face.
The delicate white lace of her skirt
Dips softly into the char-colored mud beneath it.
Yoko looks down at the ground—
Extends one lily-white finger.
It drags through the mud
Driving through the thick, wet dirt.
It begins to fill with rainwater
Mixing with the brown sediment.
It creates a lumpy, gray-black liquid.
She looks up towards the sky
The glaze coating her jade green eyes absorbs the water That hits them.
She closes her eyes and breathes.
Her lungs tell her mind beautiful stories
Of cleansing.
Large droplets of water slide to the back of her throat
As she extends her tongue.
A black streak jets across the sky.
FIFTH POEM
“There was a crooked man,
and he walked a crooked mile.
He found a crooked six-pence
upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat,
which caught a crooked mouse,
and they all lived together
in a little crooked house.”
“ひねくれた男がいた,
そして彼は曲がったマイルを歩いた
彼は曲がった6ペンスを見つけた
曲がったかまちの上で
彼は曲がった猫を買った,
曲がったネズミを捕まえたのは,
そして彼らは皆一緒に住んでいました
少し曲がった家で”
Yoko sang as she walked.
Big drops of rain slipped down the part of her hair,
A brilliant white eel in a sea of black.
They filled the sky now
All consuming bits of black fabric and
Forgotten dreams of dead children.
She can see a big hill ahead.
It’s gray in the eyes of the clouds,
But she knows that in some pocket of time
It was rolling and green–
Full of life.
She smiles as she runs forward, the freezing air
Penetrating the wool fibers of her soaking wet sweater.
Gasping, she climbs to the top of the hill.
She turns–
Looks upon the miles and miles she must walk.
She turns back to face the trees
As she sinks slowly down.
She lays back, the white skin of her back
Twitching from the burning cold sensation.
She rolls to her left, her body beginning
To slowly tumble back to earth.
Jane Kistner is a fifteen year old freelance writer and essayist. To date, she has written two unpublished,
professional grade books ('Eustace Churns the Ocean of Milk' and ’Pretty Thing, Pretty Baby, Pretty
Much'), and produced several other small compilations. She lives in Los Angeles with her family.
