like raining frogs & dead crickets, argued that morning, & baby poured soup in her hair.
You said I’m down to the pier, don’t like this stuffy house, & I said, when are you
coming back? & then a blanket of ash & gravel choked us. We were jammed
together on the floor & found later in puzzle pieces, stiff & covered
in crap. & if we had known we could go that quick, we would have done
that morning differently, skipped breakfast, walked to the ocean, watched
pink starfish in tidepools & sat together with warm arms touching, heartbeats synced.
& how I would have loved to watch the grey ferocious tidal wave come in,
like I had created this last spectacular vision just for us. Don’t screw
with my memories. It happened. Let the last minnows fall from
the sky like hopeless confetti, too jagged & sad to know what they’re even doing.
Lynn Finger’s poetry has appeared in 8Poems, Perhappened, Wrongdoing Magazine, Twin Pies, Book of Matches, Drunk Monkeys and Corporeal Lit. Lynn is an editor at Harpy Hybrid Review and works with a group, “Free Time,” that mentors writers in prison. Follow Lynn on Twitter @sweetfirefly2.
where we stop to stretch & smoke. Road’s empty. Sun concedes day’s end, tree birds call & curdle as if choked on their own blood. Prairie wind moans, calls our names, entangles us in its
smell of dust & forgotten carcass. We wander from the car into the grassy verge & find the mammoth path, with imprints of gigantic feet, like swollen mud pies, blistered in stone. We see lithic hair
& teeth glued, half stuck in layers it did not cause. The mammoth’s monster bones sleep in granite waves. “Be careful or you’ll turn into one,” you joke & stomp out your cig. The moon is extinguished in inky
clouds. I want to run but cannot. Fifty yards from the car we harden as we stand, hammered by rising dead ocean netted with old coral, stone cast anemones. We petrify, fall. Blood surge in my ears, my last view is you
folded into pounding earth, drowned in bridled slabs. I too go under. They find the car next morning, but don’t know we joined the dead, lost in a bed of crystalled hair, encrusted eyelash, arms crossed on our chests,
mouths open in impossible scream.
Lynn Finger’s poetry has appeared in Night Music Journal, Ekphrastic Review, MineralLitMag, Feral, and is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Thimble and 8Poems. Lynn is an editor at Harpy Hybrid Review, and also works with a group that mentors writers in prison.