By Nicholas Barnes
black sheep used to make lemonade. but in time, every drop lacked sweetness. each taste became
plain, lesser than the last. the bright farm flavors forgot about him. even the honeysuckle trellis
started to smell of arum and mangrove. so papa ram showed him how to substitute candied zeal
with sour agony, and mama ewe drank along too. beaten, strung up by his haunches like a piñata,
their barn home contorted into an abattoir. mama and papa butted heads with him, but he didn’t
have the guts to fight back. what remained of his sweet tooth came flying out: barren hayfield
dust strewn with caramel and taffy. on execution day, the midnight lamb managed to escape their
wooden crooks and boltguns. hitching from one pickup bed to another, he thought he’d give his
first love a second chance. the woolen outcast took flight, searching for a vista worthy of his
confectionary dreams. and not too long ago, he found it in a barebones shack, a couple acres of
clover and alfalfa, a mountain stream, a grove of meyer lemons, and his own plot of sugarcane.
Nicholas Barnes earned a Bachelor of Arts in English at Southern Oregon University. He is currently working as an editor in Portland. His poems have appeared in over fifty publications including trampset, NonBinary Review, and Eclectica Magazine.
Hot Pot Magazine 