Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Before the Moon

They say there was a time before the moon,

that is what the ancients say,

when you could look up in the sky 

and the great expanse, devoid of that structure

now so constant in our minds and art and horizons,

made you think of home – that sonorous fleecing of apparitions!

Pulverised rock between ageless fingers, the honied gazers in fragrant bloom.

And this thankfulness for Life, for a struggle realized

washing over everything.

Shared in bond, without boast.

Our first known smile held in ambered esteem.

***

Workman Down a Ladder, in Silhouette 

The lady that lives upstairs 

is getting her windows redone.

I watch through the backlit curtains.

This workman down a ladder, in silhouette.

Muffled voices like blabbering conch shells. 

That cautious sound of the ladder giving way

under the weight of another laboured descent.

The hammering will come, it always does.

In all its impossible forms.

And that sound of drills

like modern dentistry brought outdoors.

The lingering smell of sawdust 

over everything.

***

VD Clinic 

Discretion was part of the job.

The nurses took false names 

and the doctor saw nothing.

There was no waiting room.

No form to fill out.

He simply took a look and wrote 

the necessary prescriptions.

There was a back entrance 

for the great and good.

Many black limousines waiting.

No billing or paper trail.

Strictly cash on sight.

All paid by an intermediary 

you never saw.

To this self-professed Scorpio.

This doctor to the stars.

Like Copernicus 

clearing $15 million 

a year.

Some Spanish terracotta 

in the Hills.

With an original 

Rose period Picasso 

and a pool in the shape 

of a crab that no one ever 

swam in.

***

Boca Botanicals 

The girls at Boca Botanicals

are straight commission queens,

sharing skincare tips

like crimson milk handshakes,

the various regimens

like old generals 

lost to war,

divulging state secrets 

at a 200% mark up;

the hideous foot traffic 

from the mall food court

snagged by impulse buy bins

positioned near the security gate,

and that giant up to 70% off 

clearance sale banner 

which has been there since 

the soft opening over 

four years ago.

***

3rd Message

What was the third message, dammit?

Don’t ask the pope, he is under a gag order

old as dirt.  His speeches cobbled together

like the many streets below.  

There were two messages at Fatima, 

count them, two!  

The watchers of Sesame Street are commercial 

break familiar with such ritual numerology.

I’m guessing that 3rd message 

was news you don’t want to hear.

If you are the figurehead of an institution

that has pretended to know everything 

since before sliced bread.

***

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Setu, May 2024