Ben Starr

raised by skunks

Zeus, that bruising philanderer, was raised by a goat.

Amalthea suckling him with her powerful milk, 

Zeus’s prematurely muscled hands brushing 

the profitable underside of her soft creamed coat.

The Dog was raised by man. Beautiful, imperfect, 

flatulent, man. Stealing leftovers like a bindle-carrying 

vagabond. Quickly begging forgiveness with drooping 

eyes, a pair of melting coins. The Dog did meet 

a skunk once, in his youth, But he didn’t suckle.

And what he received was certainly not milk.

So he smells. Like brimstone belched from the force 

of two inclement planets colliding. But

when illness gnawed at the soft talc of my child’s 

bones, he lay by her side, like Patroclus and Achilles. 

Nudging her chin upwards with nothing more than 

his benevolent nose, cold as death’s curved blade.

how to make eggs

if you know someone 

who hasn’t slept with your ex-girlfriend

who happens to have access to a chicken, 

get the chicken. steal it if you have to.

Don’t be rude, just make it clear, 

be a shame if something happened to those eggs.

next, get out your record player. it is well 

known that chickens love philadelphia soul.

spin some hall and oates for her, maybe some 

b-side from voices or abandoned luncheonette

once you’ve got that white boy 

soul music cranking

that bird will drop eggs like 

nickels at a slot machine

when you get home, make a mimosa, 

you deserve it. then crack those embryos 

in one of the Tiffany’s champagne flutes

your wife neglected to take 

when she moved in with Craig, 

and suck those babies down like coca-cola

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Ben lives in Los Angeles with his wife, a high school teacher, and three extremely powerful little girls. Ben studied poetry in college and as part of the UCLA Extension Writers' Program. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Maudlin House, Eclectica, Talon Review, Club Plum and other journals