Unfinished
The pulse of wing against my cheek
Startled me from the book
I was reading: A Book of Luminous Things.
So quick and close it came
I think, this bird did not see me.
I Iooked, but
She had become again
A thread in the universal blanket,
And the poem was interrupted
Before I could discern its meaning.
Leaving me
Obsessed
Obessing
Who was this bird and what was happening
When she came close enough to kiss?
Was she running, oblivious?
Did the rustle, thump of her breast
form a sentence?
Will she tell her children hushed,
I found her, the ogre.
Nearly brushed against her rolling eye.
Will she shiver in disgust.
Like sweet tea, like whiskey,
I’d take it.
As it is, the poem splayed open
On my lap, on its back,
Its mouth agape and
Shallow breathing;
It stares at nothing,
Nothing that I can see.
Nothing at all
that I can see.
Baby Land
The speed limit on Industrial Avenue is 25 miles per hour;
A knife that slices too slowly
Between the cemetery and the golf course,
Where everyone appears equally
White and dead as I drive home.
On the days I get stuck behind an obedient driver
My knuckles turn white, too,
As I prefer to race ahead,
Follow too close and curse and
Wonder for the gazillionth time,
What if I just crossed
That double yellow line.
There is no guardrail; I might
Crash head first into the ditch,
Through the windshield fly
Singing, last ever song, pink foam
Splatter from my lips, wishing
The score was something else;
Jeff Buckely’s Hallelujah instead
Of some top 40 hit.
One in May I’m again furiously
Abiding the rules of the road
When I see the sparkling pinwheels,
Tiny flags, pink and blue bouquets,
Circling outward from the stone
Plaque I am always trying not to read,
Which reads, “Baby Land.”
There is no God, I think
For the gazillionth time.
Could be a head-on collision,
Always that chance. Their pink foam
On my jeans, my white
T-shirt. In the moment I can’t
Name the song still serenading
The empty cabin, but surely I will dream
Of it, wake up each day with its name
Receding back into my marrow,
A snake into its den.
Not even a statue of some concrete angel
Pretending to keep watch,
Not even a bench to sit and imagine
What they might say, just
Little headstones on display,
Exposed to me and every other asshole
Just trying to get home.
I hit the gas.
Don’t we all just want to get home?
Third option: Grit teeth.
Grip wheel. Open wide for
The asphalt. Take the whole
Damn road down my throat.
L.E.S. Artistes on repeat.
Never blink. Drink all the black
Coffee. Bury the rearview in
Crystals and Mardi Gras beads.
Fill the backseat with paper-
Backs and old notebooks
I’ll write in over and over, until the pages
Disintegrate beneath the
Deep blue ink.
The winter after I’ve chosen,
The heater’s on too high
And everything is buried in snow, so
I cannot see the lines and
There is no way to pass and
Nowhere to go but slowly,
Yet in my wake,
The Avenue’s flayed;
Drops of blood, torch red,
Flush the spaces,
I yank down my scarf and
Open the window to let in
The cold and no, the dead
Are not singing, I’ve turned off
The radio just me and the wind
And the cold, blessed avalanche,
Licks the hollow of my throat
Making me grin
Making me squint
Making me see
Oh bluest of blue skies
broken only by
the branches of
A great White Pine
Dancing over all of them
Dancing over all of me.
Sarah Kerrigan lives in Minnesota with her partner and two daughters. She has worn many hats in her life, including dog-washer, waitress, and prosecuting attorney, but she has always, always felt most at home in the world when she was writing.
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