three poems

by Sterling Davis

Peacock Butterfly

You will know who I am—

When I cast my eyes upon you.

Jesus & Judas—

The first individual killed by

The first cynic.

Now all I see is girls that look

Like tortoiseshell butterflies.

I sometimes feel godlike

Sometimes I don’t.

Honestly all I want is dicta

To bumblebees and bald-eyed

Cormorants.

Tulipmania

Philo too can attest how much

blood was shed. No trace of tulips

No cormorants. The high granite

The dearth of human memory. Until

Rhine, the Loire, and Saale drip.

Some think of Danube. In the valleys

Of Istria, Liburnia and Dalmatia

Pheasant, hawk. Though his locks

Were tidal-locked. Nine and Nine

And Nine he said. Time melts and

Melts. Some munch on roots, others

Cataclysm—

Hecate bearer of plants. The Torches

Glowed; The serpents aren’t gone

They are merely wintering.

Precipice

for Charles Kell

Reticence can be poetry.

So can knife blades.

The image is complete

The infernos glowed like heaven.

Ask Luigi

Or better yet a gasman.

Or better yet divine Minerva.

Photo of Sterling Davis

BIO: Sterling Davis is a poet, screenwriter, and artist. He is the publisher and executive editor of Poetries in English Magazine. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in swamp pink, African American Review, Poetries in English Magazine, Nimrod, Notre Dame Review, Barrow Street, Southword, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere.