a poetry e-zine










Poems By Michael Mayo

They are almost done with it,
that huge circular tube
under France and Switzerland.

They say it will enlighten us,
that when it is fully operational
it will unlock unknown secrets
of the universe to us.

And others say that when those specks
collide with their counterparts
the world will split apart
or collapse in on itself.

* * *
When I was in the third grade,
a few of us got impatient
with the progression of the eggs
we had been watching in the incubator.

So we took it upon ourselves
to unlock the secrets from one egg
in the manner that any group of eight year olds
would accomplish such a task.

And as we stared at that half-finished form,
laying lifeless on the black and white tiled floor,
we learned more than we ever thought possible.

The world didn’t end,
but it didn’t look the same.


People say there’s a face
up there on our moon.
Mars too, they say
there’s a face in the red dust.

We see us everywhere:
in random rock formations,
in the grills of oncoming traffic,
on the backs of moths and beetles,
in the neon blurs
when we squeeze shut our eyes too hard.

Even now, as I sit
in a too hot bath
a hundred miles or more
from someone who cares about me,
I see a face in the fixture.

The hot and cold eyes
laugh over that hooked beak,
as he sticks his tongue out at me.

Michael T. Mayo is a beginning poet, currently attending NC State University with majors in English and Chemistry. His work has appeared in the campus undergraduate literary journal Windhover, and he has won the NC State undergraduate poetry prize in 2006.

Copyright 2008  Chantarelle's Notebook