Poetry

Giuseppe Milo photo

By

Carl Colvin

Friday’s Dream

The clang of my third hitting

the tabletop is heard over beer-

stained floor and minds, as lines

wind through each room

to the wooden sanctuary to partake

in weekly ceremonies dedicated

to upturned glass bottoms.

My mind floats up through

the smoke-filled ceiling and past

the point of healing into the chilled

air stilled by the moon’s harsh glare

locking onto my misty eyes

and lightly pushing me into a blanket

of snow filled with disfigured metallic

scraps. My head now rests on a tire.

Creaks and Breaks

Naked tree branches

outside my window bend

and brace against winds

from the west. The music

of their struggle lulls

me to a doze, my mind

drifting from moments

ago of my brother walking

into my room, his tears

trailing on the creaky floor.

I sneak downstairs to see

my mom by the stove,

crying as well. The worn

wooden front door groans,

swaying to and fro

in the wind, but I sulk

back upstairs, for nothing

new has happened here.

Carl Colvin

Carl Colvin is a writer, editor, and musician residing in Chicago. Last year, he was chosen by Z Publishing as one of Illinois’s Best Emerging Poets and was also published by the Valparaiso Fiction Review. Musically, he performs on oboe and English horn in a variety of genres, ranging from classical to hip hop.