Unraveling Planets

 

—Poetry by Cheryl Snell, Glen Dale, MD

—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

THE CHASE


A man rounds the corner, zigzag 


shadow reaching for the woman 


who steps out of it.
He’s a late-comer, can’t catch up 


to the lady strolling through dusk 


that blazed gold only this morning.
He’d pulled the quilt over his head, 


begged the clock for ten more minutes

 
but she’d already pitched forward

to events no one can plan. Along 


straggling streets that will never 


connect them, the woman moves on. 


Behind her, the man elbows through 


the crush, searching all the places


where a door is left ajar. A wedge 


of light spills onto steps falling 


from the house into the hooded evening.
He’d have followed her the way she wanted, 


but night curves without warning, the stars 


do not touch, the road stretches down to the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

ANNIVERSARY OF OUR NARROW ESCAPE


We go shopping for shoes 


that may never be broken in 


much less worn out. We can’t dwell 


on that. Too much reality 


and our thoughts will go 


to whimsy: a sudden desire

 
to learn the guitar or a dead language,


hours spent poring over swatches


for curtains built to last. There’s the conviction


that once committed to a big project


the time we need to complete it 


will unroll like fresh turf under our feet. 


Who knows how long that grass will grow?


There’s always someone to tamp it down 


with the old soft shoe


and the explanation that rescue 


works best under a dark sky getting darker,


the forecast filling with rain.

 

 

 

 

 

FIRE ON THE CUYAHOGA

The river burned only a few times, 


but nobody here forgets it. You’d think 


they’d keep it all up a little better—


look at the candy wrappers, empty bottles, rubbers.


Who knows what’s dumped in after dark?

 

Beauty is as beauty does, I suppose, and of course 


all rivers are beautiful, not necessarily with the
untouched 


beauty of a head cheerleader at her beginning of
things—


but more like the worn kind she’ll grow into, 


after she runs off with her married man, 


bringing back three kids, one of them always sick, 


and her working minimum wage at the K-Mart,


the new boyfriend with raw hands and grimy
fingernails, 


who knows she thinks she’s settling, out back 


building her a barbeque pit, trying to ignite the
flame 
that will stun her into loving him.


(prev. pub. in A Sundress Best of the Net Anthology)

 

 

 

 

 


INSOMNIA

I stand guard over your fitful sleep. Heat rises, mixes 


with your sweat while I watch your fever rage.


It’s almost midnight. Planets blink, offer neither clue 


nor compassion. The hour’s breaking shivers with sound,


draws me to the window below the shingled wings


of the sloping roof.
A bird tunes its throat, swells a single pitch 


from the quavering source. Shapes from a far branch 


answer, the motif embellished as if caught in a lie.
Notes loosed into an imitation of flight remind me of all 


that must not happen in the dark: a soul slipping away, 


all vigilance forsaken. 

 



I turn back to you, pulse quick with dotted rhythms


and count out the time left to us


under your vein-mapped skin. 

 

 

 

 

 

SUBLIMATION


Her scaffold of fingers guarded his heart 


all night long, but she was talisman 


of a non-believer. She bargained for time, 


and it never let her close her eyes.
He died and she went to live on the couch. 


The stone dense with biography slumped 


against an indifferent god as she tried 


to remember him without sentiment,
according to his laws. When his scent 


faded from the sheets, and the disc 


of camphor crumbled unlit in the lamp, 


his gestures froze in her mind
until they turned tacit, loosing her 


into the landscape where she’d last seen him, 


spinning between wrong-headed markers 


as each star blew its fuse.
The plunging light erased the sky. Planets


unraveled like balls of string, leaving only 


a knot of scars on the verge of change, 


unreadable as a wayward pulse.
 
______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

STREAMERS
—Cheryl Snell



 

To cry 


one’s eyes out


the base 


of the socket 


must hollow: where 
t

he nerves pinch


imagine ribbons 


dancing


in the presence of a sunken sun; 


and as the river below


overflows


its cracked and 
s

hallow bed


imagine the stars 


watching you


as you come to 


the end of all


your human grief.

______________________

Welcome back to Cheryl Snell today; Cheryl first appeared in the Kitchen on Dec. 18, 2022. All of today’s poems were nominated for either a Pushcart or a Best of the Net. Most recently, her words have appeared in the Drabble, 365 Tomorrow, Spillwords, Press Pause Press, Ilanot Review, Cafe Irreal, Roi Faingeant, Literary Yard, New World Writing, and elsewhere. A classical pianist, she lives in Maryland with her husband, a mathematical engineer.  

Don’t forget the Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading today in Camino, CA, at 2pm, and the Sierra Poetry Festival Pop-Up event at 4pm at Wild Eye Pub in Grass Valley. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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