A Circle Made of Corners
Marjorie has no idea what is emerging from her mouth--
words erupt like an infestation of spiders.
Tina has gills, three strips of white tape,
which seal the fine slit across her neck’s artery.
She is leaving today with two dollars in her pocket
and bad directions to Monterey.
Gavin monitors his anger.
He tends the weeds in the beds of the patio for one hour every day.
He will give you a shoulder massage whether you want it or not.
But don’t worry. He’s here on his on recognizance, he says.
Old Bill is waiting for his ID to be sent
so he can fly back to the islands and tend his parents’ coffee farm.
Every story he tells eventually includes some plot to maim or kill him.
Sandra wears a Day-Glo Nike shirt emblazoned with the word “Run."
She found it in the lost and found. It suggests
not so much health, but ragged escape.
Me? I am only observing these poor souls.
I am not allowed to shut any doors
and there are no windows here.
At night, a big Hispanic kid in scrubs
sits in my doorway. The nurse looks
at his iPhone and waits. For what
I could never say.
In the morning,
we teeter around the unit with fragile teacups heads
careful not to splatter worst-thoughts-imaginable
on screaming clean linoleum.
Now it's time for a meeting
so we rearrange the furniture
seek some new logic--
an undiscovered geometry--
a circle made of corners.
Ryan Masters' poetry has been published in a wide range of literary journals including The Iowa Review, California Quarterly and ELKE. A chapbook, below the low-water mark, is available from Pudding House Publications (2003). He was the poet-in-residence of the City of Pacific Grove from 2002-2004. He is a staff reporter at the Santa Cruz Sentinel and his prose has appeared in magazines such as Scuba Diving Magazine, The Surfers Journal and Catamaran Literary Reader.
Marjorie has no idea what is emerging from her mouth--
words erupt like an infestation of spiders.
Tina has gills, three strips of white tape,
which seal the fine slit across her neck’s artery.
She is leaving today with two dollars in her pocket
and bad directions to Monterey.
Gavin monitors his anger.
He tends the weeds in the beds of the patio for one hour every day.
He will give you a shoulder massage whether you want it or not.
But don’t worry. He’s here on his on recognizance, he says.
Old Bill is waiting for his ID to be sent
so he can fly back to the islands and tend his parents’ coffee farm.
Every story he tells eventually includes some plot to maim or kill him.
Sandra wears a Day-Glo Nike shirt emblazoned with the word “Run."
She found it in the lost and found. It suggests
not so much health, but ragged escape.
Me? I am only observing these poor souls.
I am not allowed to shut any doors
and there are no windows here.
At night, a big Hispanic kid in scrubs
sits in my doorway. The nurse looks
at his iPhone and waits. For what
I could never say.
In the morning,
we teeter around the unit with fragile teacups heads
careful not to splatter worst-thoughts-imaginable
on screaming clean linoleum.
Now it's time for a meeting
so we rearrange the furniture
seek some new logic--
an undiscovered geometry--
a circle made of corners.
Ryan Masters' poetry has been published in a wide range of literary journals including The Iowa Review, California Quarterly and ELKE. A chapbook, below the low-water mark, is available from Pudding House Publications (2003). He was the poet-in-residence of the City of Pacific Grove from 2002-2004. He is a staff reporter at the Santa Cruz Sentinel and his prose has appeared in magazines such as Scuba Diving Magazine, The Surfers Journal and Catamaran Literary Reader.