John Abbott

A Borrowed View

In a borrowed room

the hitchhikers

share a diminished view

of the city at dawn:

the sunrise fractured

by clouds

and the Waffle House sign

and of course the interstate.

With blurry eyes

they can’t fully see

or remember which direction

they came from

or where they want to go.

 

Almost before

this experience is over

it has been added

to the other experiences

so similar in all

the important ways

that they run together,

which wouldn’t be so bad

if this moment of confusion

weren’t the only thing

they could safely rely on.

 

The Red Cedar

Every year someone drowns

in this river

which is named

for the cedar leaves

coloring its water.

It is always

a college student,

a dreamer or

outcast or sometimes

just someone

coming home from

the bar too late

with too much

on their mind.

 

No one is ever

sure of what drew

them toward the water’s

edge. Perhaps the way

ducks huddle against

the bank or tree roots

hang over the water

like a step,

like an invitation

to some unknown world

where movement is

a given and progress

and destruction

are often the same.

 

by John Abbott

John Abbott is a writer, musician, and English instructor who lives with his wife and daughter in Kalamazoo, Michigan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Potomac Review, Georgetown Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Arcadia, Atticus Review, upstreet, Underground Voices, Fast Forward: A Collection of Flash Fiction, and many others. His first chapbook “There Should Be Signs Here” is forthcoming from Wormwood Chapbooks. For more information about his writing, please visit www.johnabbottauthor.com

Cove/Silence

Cove

Where the

Black rock

Is soaked

In silver spray,

Moonlit

 

My guttural baritones

Are

Bowed strings of longing

 

Come in to my cove,

My black wings

Encircling

 

I cannot

Promise

A halo

 

But you and I, we

Could circle the fire

 

Let the howl

Of the wild

Rip the skin

From the waters

 

It will never

Tear the tears

From closed eyes

So please,

 

Burrow

And Settle

 

In the crook

The cradled bay

And I will set us in stone

If you will stay

 

Silence

There is no better sound;

the greatest opus

The caught breath

between thrusts

As her father calls

from beyond the walls

And a gulp slips away down a throat

 

The smoking gun

A peeling onion

and the tears of realisation

tearing out the truth talking noise clutter

It is guilt.

 

Pulled through in puppet strings

A thread long

A tight wire – line straight, an endless

unravelling of the mind inside

 

It is the music of tension,

the eternity of waiting

 

It is taking

the talking for a talking to

Away beyond the sidelines

Downstairs behind the kitchen door

and out through the garden, the garage,

the secret corner and the sly cigarette your father

will never show unto your mother

 

It is the monolith

in white block

One giant eraser ready

for the painting over

The one coat non drip glossing over a canvas

A cosmic napkin wiping the crumbing

of the messy eating of language

and the swirling amateur chaos of colour mixing

 

A palette trashed

A square punch to a whiteout

A collapse from a breakdown

And the blurring, the peaceful nothing

Of a hospital bed in morphine

With a sawn off shotgun

and a hearing all sewn up

A hearing

O, finally a hearing

without a judgement;

 

A hearing we don’t have to listen to.

 

by Greg Webster

Laura Baker

Wine Tasting

Breathe,

but don’t inhale.

Taste and swish,

but don’t swallow.

The experience

lasts a moment,

then discarded

into a silver bucket.

So dignified,

so proper,

delicate ladies

with perfect hair

spitting blood

red mouthfuls.

 

Falling in Love Outside a Ryan Adams Concert

Into a swirl of smoke and music,

awkward chatter fades away.

 

Cigarette smoke mingles with,

Just put your arms around her already.

 

A woman laughs.

Pretense of scalped tickets

 

falls away, as we move closer,

pressed together in the rain.

 

by Laura Baker

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