Bio:
Twice
a Best of the Net nominee, Cheryl A. Rice’s most
recent publications include Dressing for the Unbearable (Flying
Monkey Press), Love’s Compass (Kung Fu Treachery Press),
and Until The Words Came (Post Traumatic Press). She writes a
monthly column for the Hudson Valley Writers Guild (hvwg.org), and her blog is at http://flyingmonkeyprods.blogspot.com/.
Paradise
You
float, tethered to wings of ripstop nylon,
orange
bird of no consequence.
You
fly like a stone, shoot at paper turkeys or
cans
stolen from your mother’s toxic larder.
‘Be
with me,’ you said in the moment.
Each
moment rolled like an urban globe,
the
negative, limping space you created.
Bird
of Paradise started it all,
promise
on our first date of exotic territory
you
couldn’t explore alone.
A
black feather wages war with the sky,
human
drone out of film,
bones
broken to prove your worth.
Gravity
is the only constant.
Parachutes
never open in time
to
prevent collision with dry life.
What
was it like in that moment you crossed into ether?
Was
the Holy Mother on hand to forgive you,
offer
a taste of authentic Heaven?
***
Turbulence
The
plane rattles like a Trailways bus
speeding
down 209, but the road
is
miles below, bumps against
air
itself, and if we fall, we fall hard.
I
am, as usual, the only one concerned
about
these things, my fearful mind
lingering
in the exceptions.
This
doesn’t stop me from using the restroom,
blue
lagoon of waste here in the clouds.
There
is a sign above the sink that forbids smoking,
added
in the days when everybody smoked
to
pass the miles, minimize cravings
for
overpriced pretzels and wine.
Another
sign warns about putting out cigarettes in the trash,
a
brilliant idea in an enclosed, pressurized space,
something
else to add to my list of possibilities.
There
is also a small ashtray built into the door.
I’m
getting mixed signals, but that’s the way
with
discount airlines.
Balls
of boozy, prefab cocktails cost more
than
I would pay in a normal earthbound bar.
My
Beloved, who neither drinks nor smokes,
has
a vape pen that leaks in his jacket pocket,
air
pressure or faulty seal.
Our
seats reek of springtime car apples.
I
loan him the plastic pouch intended for my earplugs,
plug
myself into a downloaded podcast about the Marx Brothers,
pray
to a non-existent god that we make it down soon.
***
Crows Never Speak to Me
My
sister has her own personal murder
in
her backyard, crows that greet her in the morning
while
she soaks up the sun, coffee in hand, decaf.
She
watches them ring the empty corral, call to each other.
They
don’t speak to me, tho we’re not on bad terms.
I’m
only outdoors between house and car,
galumphing
down on half-good knees.
Our
brief light accommodates all sorts of neighbors—
congregation
of pious mice in the holy basement,
ants
poised at the windowsill for solstice,
squirrels
a tiny thunder across the roof.
Perhaps
our cohabitation keeps erratic spirits
in
the wood walls where they belong.
My
morning habits don’t accommodate intruders.
I
embrace solitude, fully loaded coffee lukewarm
halfway
thru the morning, interweb updates
bringing
war to my desktop, blood thru the screens.
I
gage weather thru the skylight, trees still bare
in
the stagnant throes of early spring.
Crows
leave their shiny offerings at
my
sister’s croc-covered feet,
guardian
sentinels, absolving obedience.
I like the poetry's ability to tell stories, descriptive and flowing.
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