Green Hills Literary Lantern

 

 

Eyelids

 

 

 

 

The office lights go out –

one by one, like tiny eyelids

closing for the day. I watch the

workers leave, heads bent

down in the new pose of

technology, making or avoiding

plans for the night. The TV talks

of gloom and doom, every

station verifying that we’re

headed for the end, and no

political party can save us.

But this doesn’t stop the

office workers – they tear

into the darkness, fear

turned to dust as hookups

and breakups all take place

in a tribal dance of unity --

the evening roaring like a lion

who owns the jungle – even

when outnumbered and worn

down from the hunt.

 

 

The Big C

 

Late winter and it has come to this:

one word, the dominos in full collapse.

I see the past in a slow smear --

you, coming off that ride at the fair, woozy

in a fit of laughter, long before

the word was even a twinkle; calling

in sick with stories as believable as a flat earth.

A drive to the lake – lying on the hood

of the car watching the clouds

become our favorite animals; this is

before. Memories get shelved

with old books, our names written

in dust between the pages; a push

forward as we count chickens --

walk over coals to make a point

to the future. Our hands overlap

waiting on the moon, the word

breathing salt into our wounds.

 

 

Cathy Porter's poetry has appeared in Plainsongs, Homestead Review, Chaffin Journal, Pennine Ink, and other journals. She has two chapbooks available from Finishing Line Press: A Life In The Day and Dust And Angels. Her latest chapbook, Exit Songs, was published in 2016 from Dancing Girl Press.

 

Porter lives and works in Omaha, NE and can be contacted at clcon@q.com