He didn't know if it was
red or white or yellow
that got the lights working again
that would put the flicker back into her face.
Twisting and stripping wire
so that the current can carry
through walls and into outlets
isn't his day job.
Isn't really
his job at all.
The radio dims in sound
the lights waver
and he jumps back.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Takes the time
to make sure his feet
are firmly planted-
left hand takes blue
right hand takes red
heels seized in boot sole
and go.
This is the poem I received in my email box today from poets.org. I love the meshing of a vulture and mitochondria.
Prayer for Sleep
by Cheryl Dumesnil
The chiropractor sent me home
with my left ankle taped, my neck
cracked, and instructions not to sleep
on my belly, so when it came time
for bed, I dropped a tequila shot,
laid back and closed my lids, entrails
exposed to vultures of bad dreams.
From the neighboring pillow,
my love whispered theories
of meditation, biofeedback, post-
traumatic stress, and prayer. When
she asked, "If a divine creator
made the universe, who made
the divine creator?" I mumbled,
"Are you trying to talk me to sleep?"
She smiled, then babbled
past midnight, contemplating out loud
the metaphysics of leaf production,
the wonder of molecules
that make up our bed, the web
of my cell structure connected
to hers, until I fell asleep,
imagining the mitochondria
of words, thinking, if god is
love, let me sleep to this sound of her voice.
Rybicki Evening
Eating salmon with capers, herbed cream cheese
on toasted foccacia bread crested with red wine vinegar
marinated onions on a plate, rimmed in gold
water in a goblet, two forks, a napkin in the lap
then, to the bus station, to find a way back,
traversing the flat, black sea with someone learning to compose music
or so says the idiot’s guide in his hands or the man talking incessantly
about someone’s anger. Looking out the city is dark and wet for this evening
no longer smells like home
the rhythm of the city has changed–
it lassoed lights and smells it found in magazines
made a priority of miscellany or perhaps,
this mediocre nose and eyes have developed with the woman
layered under fleece and her father’s sweatshirt,
plodding along,
lost in a tidal wave of revelations and language
tireless when hunted.
Jennifer Miller McIntyre
Stage Left Bank
Seeing elephants made of clay
as you drive to teach youth
can never be a good sign
lights rise
men in distinguished hats rarely dance
Quick
moving boxes filled with spaghetti
curtains part
a woman sings a shrill note that goes from G to E
and back, no Bach, no concerto, just her sliding note
in the key of grass
Applause
Silence
A small dog timidly peeks out
a clay elephant in his mouth
forty-two teeth marks and a missing leg
A small boy runs in
thud of footfall
gives the dog a fedora to wear
placing it between the ears
then screaming one single note
the boy pogo jumps away
The play had never begun
Jennifer Miller McIntyre
Kingdom Come
She wants to be your apocalypse
the one who reins down the worth of you
and judges breath. She wants to be the force
that makes you unable to say no.
All you ever wanted was a yes.
She wants to be the one to forage you in her arms until
the horsemen bow their heads and raise their swords
letting their horns blow their last.
She will drop her wings on your threshold and still ascend.
All you ever wanted was a yes.
The mess of severance will be devastating, but you saw it
coming on the edges of cameras
that caught too much joy
fraud committed with eyes screaming death.
The stark contrast between worship and apathy
became a schism with no hope to bear.
All you ever wanted was a yes.
Wandering along the back of her neck
you witness what was supposed to be.
You both pushed and pulled
dancing as you desecrated each other.
But in the end,
there was no apocalypse.
It was the human condition
marked only by sinful behavior.
Treat her as diphtheria
to your penicillin. Mend her.
Only then will you both be
precise and defined.
All you ever wanted was a yes.
Jennifer Miller McIntyre
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