I Called You Orion

when you were in my belly,
small as a grapefruit seed.
Within the dark of my womb
you shone of your own constellation-
star glow-
growing and expanding out from
our own little galaxy.

The orange and white cat
named Zsa Zsa Gabor
slept each night between my legs
at the cave of your exit,
as if to prevent your
early admission from Heavenly
to Earthly realm.

I dreamed once that you arrived,
I stood silently in the hospital
elevator holding you
riding to the sound of Muzak,
we beamed into each other’s
celestial eyes.
You, a boy, Orion the hunter,
and I, Euryale, the mother.

You came with no fuss at all,
my girl,
my darling collection
of perfectly aligned stars,
transitioned from cold night sky
slipped into a warm cotton wrap
held to my bare swollen chest,
mouth agape in slumber.
I named you Rhea,
Mother of the Gods.

Casa de Piedimonte

On a sunrise slope
Mid-century modern
Brick archways
Pool in the back
Tennis court on the side
you wear these things like
a headdress.

You home a koi pond
with statues of Greek beauties
neighboring the Japanese Tea Room
You home a tiny stained-glass chapel
Brand new kitchen
Original master bath
with a teal sunken tub.

You homed a family since 1950
Italian & proud.
Imported lights from Turkey
Oh, steal my heart already!
Unfinished basement
Library with a secret wall
passageway, that’s for novels.

Within you I see the long presence
of a man.
He loved you,
you homed him.
I see parties by the pool
adults carrying martini glasses
& laughing.
How I wish it could be, that I
were to fill you up
with my presence,
talk to the koi
meditate by the stained-glass
paint my joy on your walls,
But alas, the sale has gone
to the highest bidder.
I will never get to drink in
your sunrise.

Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues currently lives on the sacred Powhatan land of Fairfax, VA. She is trained as a certified yoga therapist & trauma informed yoga teacher, military spouse, & mom. She has been published in The Muleskinner Journal, tiny frights, Amethyst Review, The Martello Journal, & Bluepepper as either poet or photographer. She would like to thank Not the Rodeo Poets for their undying support and love.

Image by Bernard Spragg. NZ from Christchurch, New Zealand, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Control

When my computer’s platform
for attending virtual meetings crashed,
and my IT specialist recommended I give control,
I eagerly abdicated.

Cursor moved as though on autopilot,
clicked here and there,
scanned code that made no sense to me.

How easy it would be to relinquish control
to someone who knew better
how to navigate the mysterious code of life—

but before I could explore the fantasy,
IT had returned control to me

just in time for my next virtual meeting.

Social Media Boycott

A pity,
to wait the year’s lingering days,
long, cold winters,
flash-in-the-pan summers,
occasional whiffs of spring flowers
and leaps into crispy piles of autumn leaves,

the whole year waiting for that brilliant moment:
the accumulation of “happy birthday” greetings
on your electronic wall for all to see.

Passionate copy-and-paste words of heartfelt feeling—
“happy birthday” and “have a good one”—
emojis that live up to their names,
heartfelt gifs and images evoking a laugh or cry.

The joining of humanity singing birthday wishes
like so many cards that did not require postage
or the purchase of a card or even
the uncovering of a freebie charity card
kicking around in a junk drawer.

Oh, you can relate to the reason behind the boycott:
the overreach of the venue,
injustice of the situation,
mistreatment,
wrongs in need of righting.

You stand with the boycotters in solidarity!
We will not take this, we will disappear
from this electronic venue to inflict
the sting of our strike!
We will be missed!

Alas, we are missed.

Such a pity.

Did it have to happen on my birthday,
you wonder as you find solace
in your social media “memories”
from this day
in yesteryears.

Eric D. Goodman lives and writes in Maryland, where he’s remained sheltered in place for most of the pandemic, spending a portion of his hermithood writing poetry. He’s author of Wrecks and Ruins (Loyola University’s Apprentice House Press, 2022) The Color of Jadeite (Apprentice House, 2020), Setting the Family Free (Apprentice House, 2019), Womb: a novel in utero (Merge Publishing, 2017) Tracks: A Novel in Stories (Atticus Books, 2011), and Flightless Goose, (Writers Lair Books, 2008). More than a hundred short stories, articles, and travel stories have been published in literary journals, magazines, and periodicals. His poetry has been published in Gargoyle, Loch Raven Review, North of Oxford, The Five-Ten, and Bourgeon. Learn more about Eric and his writing at www.EricDGoodman.com.

Image: Simonilja, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Who Shot J.R.?

I was very young,
but I remember all the adults
talking about it.

Who Shot J.R.?
they would ask each other.

I did not know who J.R. was,
but everyone seemed very concerned.

There was so much speculation.

CBS marketing the catchphrase on television.
Beaming it into every stupid home.

Magazines showed up with: Who Shot J.R.?
plastered across all the covers.

This J.R. must be a very important person!
I thought.
A famous president or scientist.

Everyone wanted to know.

So concerned about Who Shot J.R.?
And never once about who shot all those other
real people that never mattered.

Friday I’m in Love (with Rita)

She sounds like she should be able
to run faster than any other land mammal.

Friday I’m In Love
with Rita.

Lazily chewing on this short order
breakfast omelette.

Almost grazing
in some peeling squeaky wheel banquette
by the window.

Various condiment guts dried
to the side of flippant squeeze bottle nozzle.

Her address in my pocket,
or at least the one she gave me.

Who cares if it turns out to be another
demolition site of flighty hard hats.

That perfectly tousled hair!
Her perfume living rent free
up my nostrils.

I feel 20 pounds lighter
in spite of what the scale says.

Help old ladies across the street
because the world is not half bad
again.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Bourgeon, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Image by Jaboyce, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons