there is chatter in the café, but not enough
to drown the silence in the kitchen, not
enough to distract from the sticky smudged drops
on the windows, which are
not enough to tempt the flies who gather instead
around the bar, by the open bottles, in your hair;
not enough hours to make something worthwhile, not
enough dollars to not worry; not enough rain
in the cotton-capped sky, not enough sincerity
to draw out a smile, not enough metaphor to hide,
not enough words not enough to explain,
not enough energy to run, not enough
to make her want to stay.
Author: joanna
Uncoded
the river swells in her bed, an ocean
trapped in an earthy body. the rains
haven’t stopped all summer; violence
ripples in her skin. on the right shoulder
of the bridge, an ambulance
idles flashing. 20 feet ahead, the water
rescue team is parked, bright red against
gray concrete. men
lean into the rail, searching,
their whole minds in their eyes,
scanning movement for movement,
pushing the churn of fear
down behind only: see.
there is a faith in this, whatever
they believe at home on a Sunday.
a blind looking, in hope.
one gets a message
on the radio at his hip.
they climb back in their trucks.
there is nothing
but current below, wild ever-dance
of waters downstream. a sadness
in the way the ambulance pulls
away, its lights extinguished.
one day when we were more or less strangers
it’s amazing what bodies can accomplish
in the dark, you said, we both
reading into the dawn, our heads
shooting up
like jackrabbits, red eyes
wary in the halflight. we try
to pass it off, just another
comment on the stars,
not on the arms
& thighs & skin of us,
how the clocks of us
feel the pull of tides
in their salty shadows.
we, gentler without the overhead.
we, in awe of how the sun grows
each day like we weren’t even watching.
we, quiet in the roar of the universe.
