Beowulf
by and published in Edition Eight of Pomegranate
For me you play piano in an empty church, not just anything, though you’re charming enough to be armed like a Saxon. This is enough, and besides—no one believes my boyfriend breaks into Harvard to serenade me. But no, keep it going: play Beethoven, all the swirling ego, the pomp and boasting in your fingers. Make it a real gesture going out across the signal, all those pews and prayerless me in this cell where the bones are creaking. The mountains about me cry only of the demons no one ever gets out, so string me along in these new telegrams, tell me Grendel’s mother had nothing to mourn, and this beast growling between our mouths is why they build churches all the same.
Noren Bonner
Noren Bonner is a carpetbagger in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She will soon graduate from Hollins University with a degree in Creative Writing and a sincere affection for the many surprises women’s institutions spring on the unsuspecting. This is her first publication.