Memories of Light

 —Poetry by Cheryl Snell, Glen Dale, MD
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

TURN IN THE DIRECTION OF THE SKID

When I catch her kissing my boyfriend


after our shift I refuse to get in the car with him. 


I have to go home with her instead. 
I

call an Uber, and we tilt our bodies against 


opposite doors in the backseat, 


the silence between us rock-hard.  



 

Uber guy says, “You ladies should smile more, 


pretty girls like you.” He flexes the muscles 


in his forearms and makes his homemade tattoos
dance. 


“What about the uglies─should they smile, too?” 


My roommate sits perpendicular to the cushion, 


bares her teeth in a crazy grimace, and growls. 


When she barks, he crashes into a STOP sign,
and slurs, 


“Stop” as if the word, too, is skidding.

 

 

 

 

ESCAPE


A woman is waiting for the world to wink. 


Its eyelid closes and shadows sweep across the
moon 
and swallow the house like the aching silence 


after he spit brittle whispers from his sickbed. 


This is her one chance─and she’s on stilts now, 


lurching above the trees. 



 

After the blackened moon, a paring of pale light.

It blooms behind her, shows her that her house is 


where she left it—he never saw her step over it; 


he never noticed the clouds she’s carrying on
her back.

 

 

 

 

OBJECTS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY
APPEAR


“I promise these will work,” I tell her, 


handing her the Rx. “It has something to do 


with neurotransmitters. They’ll calm the yo-yo 


of your moods. You won’t swing too high or low.” 


“I’ll be stuck in the Goldilocks zone forever?”  


“Better than the phases that grind you down


to mulch.”


“What about side effects?”


“Maybe a little hair shedding, dry mouth”


“Like kindling?”


“You’re not combustible!”


“I’m already on fire.” 


She fingers the chained diamond around her neck


and I think of how the stone started out as carbon.


“I’ll take the new meds, but do you have any 


that will turn me back into who I was?”

 

 

 

A SHUDDER OF CLOWNS TALK TRASH
ABOUT UFOs IN THE HOUSE OF HUMANS

Icebergs are melting


headlights freeze deer


glitter’s all copper


the water’s not clear. 


Breezes speed up


to hurricane winds.


Your hair’s going gray


like all of your kin.


The cracks in your face 


match the ones in the earth


but that flickering sky 


only signals rebirth.


So don’t be so worried


there’s nothing to fear.


Aliens won’t hurt you.


We’re lucky they’re here.

 

 

 

 

THE METAMORPHOSIS OF LIGHT


The thing about the caterpillar is its size. 


Its body is striped skinny, and my sister is there 


with the camera, looking for luck.


It’s not as if all the leaves are countable,


but there’s a four-leaf something in here 

somewhere; 


the caterpillar is communing with the one being 


pulled down by a chrysalis beneath it. I touch it 


and it feels like the inside of a puppy’s ear.
Swaddled wings emerge, leaving the leaf to its
younger sister. 


Beyond that, we watch light shimmer through
new wings.
And then, the memory of light. Behind that, 


the sound of my sister clicking the camera.

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If you're looking for a New Year where you won't have any problems, oh, you're asking for so much, my friend, so much! What you want for the New Year is actually very simple: Ask for the mental and physical strength to overcome whatever difficulties you encounter in the New Year!
 
― Mehmet Murat ildan

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming Cheryl Snell back to the Kitchen with her fine poems today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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