POETRY
Pedestrian
“Pedestrian” read by Regina McMorris.
Tonight the silver moon reveals its lower half
through translucent clouds, the shape
like a watermelon slice. As the clouds shift,
I forget the weight of my dirty laundry as I drag
my suitcase down Colton Avenue, and I don’t
miss having a ride to the coin-op.
The hidden half of the moon, larger
than the half I can see. As they whir by,
cars leave behind the taste of oil. If I had a license,
I’d be there by now, loading lights
and darks into the same washer.
Two weeks ago, Terry Lacey promised to teach me
to drive as she trimmed the hairs from my neck
before my date. I have yet to tell her
I was asleep by midnight the same night my ex
drove the actress to Forest Falls. My feet speed up.
I try to forget: the meteor shower started
after two a.m., and I slept through it. The muscles in my thighs
tighten: the coin-op is closed.
Before I can think — God, where are you? —
a single meteor slides like a tear down an invisible cheek.
I turn back with my dirty laundry suitcase in tow,
my back to the half moon, knowing
my head will rest safely on my pillow before midnight.
Pride
“Pride” read by Regina McMorris.
This thin black rock,
sharp enough to slit
a wolf’s throat. Still
I wear it under
my skin with my
other organs:
liver, intestines,
spleen. A soft cloud
bruises an otherwise
clear sky. When I
fall face down, mud
returns my hug.
A frog kisses
my filthy face.
The belief that
I should have been
perfect surprises
everyone but me.
Regina McMorris has a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. She is currently an English Professor at Blinn College in Bryan, Texas. Her poems have appeared in various literary magazines, including Mid-American Review and Gulf Coast.
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