Pantea Karimi © 2017 All Rights Reserved
When It Rains, It Rains
The cloud bank has been drained. Cashed
out. Robbed of mirages. Gone
the snail, the rabbit, the whole flock of sheep.
If thereís a silver lining, I canít find it.
Maybe it followed. Maybe itís wherever
Tinkerbellís shadow got off
toórun like nylons from a callused heel.
Or Iím the bloody heel the shadow left
behind. Itís me I miss
and I donít know what
Iím looking for. Nothing but a maybe
hand shaking a silvery bell.
I look under the bed and there
is someoneís father swallowed by vodka
bottles, trees with Xes chalkmarked for chopping.
On the block, the manís left
a note pleading donít
the sycamores count for anything? Iíve looked
under Sófound a dozen synonyms for should.
Found stick figures, staple guns an orphaned shoe.
Iíve paged through the catalog of after-
thoughts: p.s. pig slops and postage stamps.
Maybe I heard it wrong. Maybe itís a silk
lining thatís given me the slip.
Could be itís run off to find itself
a place along the midway in the bright,
bright circus of the future.
In Due Time
1. Dear Future
a miserable speck of your past.
But lookóthere are throngs
of us here. Some who mumble
when they pray, some who plot
data points, some casting lots
who will go first.
Can you give us a hint?
2. Dear Future
Day comes with its cross-
haired sun; night with its carousel of stars:
the shooters, the burn outs, the burning
still. Is there any order to this?
Even the chicken and egg agree
Our steps are bedeviled
with questions: What
will we be
when we grow up? Will we walk
through a door or fall
off the edge?
3. Dear Future, I See
the bull in you snorting
and kicking up dirt.
An ant afraid to be stomped.
And I worry. Like a farmer
with a finger in the air, or parents
checking car seats and nanny-cams.
I see rabbits swollen with brood,
you in the breach, twisted
cord around your neck.
If I could, Iíd send a midwife
but I havenít got your address.
4. Future Dearly
The future dearly wants to tell us:
Economists are no better
than weathermen. Too much
growth saps the bones.
Thereís an omen
in every phenomenon.
The edge is near.
The future turns
to Moses. Holy, holy.
But the prophetís tongue is tied.
So it pulls Chicken Little aside. To spread
the word. But the bird thinks sheís dreaming
so the warnings wonít come out.
5. Dear Future, I Hear
you at the trough, gagging
on our pig-eyed inventions,
our noxious droppings.
If I could, Iíd fix you
the feast you deserve.
Spare no expense on the latest vaccine.
But there are no pennies
to pick up. Iím sorry.
6. Future Present
At sunrise, we set
out on a journey, aging as we go.
Our caravan makes for that place
where parallels meet. An old moon
waves on a bridge
From the dash, a bass vibration
comes. A ringtone of milk spilling.
Itís the future on the line.
Nina Corwin has two books of poetry, The Uncertainty of Maps and Conversations With Friendly Demons and Tainted Saints. Published in Harvard Review, Hotel Amerika, New Ohio Review and Rhino, Corwin, a Pushcart nominee, curates the literary series at Woman Made Gallery. In daytime hours, she is a psychotherapist known for her work on behalf of victims of violence.
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