South
You promised me no problems
when the temperatures dropped,
assured me that we were prepared.
Holding hands we watched
the great migration south.
With synthetic skins, cryo foods,
and prefab domes, you said we couldn’t lose.
There was little need to leave the domes.
Safe from the fierce glacial winds,
we made love on autumn colored furs.
Yet you were the first to grow restless,
to stand all night at the southern window
following the great move of stars.
We shared the bitter smoke of silence
until one morning, you were gone.
I waited for you, my fingers
tracing love symbols on the icy glass.
I slept with the red wing of your guitar.
Then moon-shadow tall, you came home.
Inside the door, I didn’t know your eyes.
. . .
This year, I read while you play solitaire.
Our conversations are textured with frost.
I ache for your laughter,
the taste of grass on your skin,
a bouquet of crocuses in a blue vase.
—Marge Simon
Parabolic Puzzles
Paul Holmes
Many-fingered Aliens
Having parked up the Centurion Eagle at the Prestwick International Spaceport, I wandered over to the Strangers Bar for a well-earned drink.
As I entered the bar, I was taken aback to see so many aliens. A gaggle of Trellians had evidently arrived for the annual hyperdrive conference and were wetting their whistles prior to the first seminar.
“How many Trellians are there?” I gasped. “I’ve never seen so many.”
“I can tell you there are between 300 and 400 fingers in the room”, said my ever-challenging acquaintance.
“Really?” I said, growing somewhat tired of his games.
“Yes! In fact, if I told you the exact number of fingers, you could tell instantly how many aliens there are.”
“OK,” I said “How many fingers are there?”
“Not telling you,” said my frustrating friend.
