Markus Meier photo
By
Carolynn Kingyens
Of Mice, Of Men, Of Chickens
I come from a long line
of women who can break
a man’s heart,
and a chicken’s neck.
Their gingham aprons,
full of white feathers;
small hands,
full of beating hearts.
Bowls of blood sausage
and stale bread
for days.
Of mice and men;
of men and mice,
of chickens,
it doesn’t matter.
And my father,
a projection of defeat
inside the house he built
with his own hands
Somewhere along the line,
I jumped the continuum.
Not all invasions are Trojan.
Some are innocuous
as a slip of skin
at the right time.
Freakish Accidents
After my move
to Manhattan,
a gust of wind blew down
a 4-by-8 sheet of plywood
from atop a condo
conversion in the West
Village, striking a woman
in the head – killing her
instantly as she walked
on the sidewalk below,
at the clearing
of scaffolding.
In overcast Ithaca,
I’d watched a wind storm,
from the safety
of my living room,
blow down a grand
ash tree; my pitched roof
breaking its fall.
When the winds picked up,
I moved my daughters,
still sleeping, to the middle
of my bed.
The pine trees on Pine Tree
Road swayed in the black
hole wind at night,
their haunting sound
reminiscent
of ceremonious gongs.
Each gong for a loss.
Each gong for a betrayal.
You Can’t Handle the Truth
Tell me the truth,
and I will follow you
through wormwood,
wormholes, to the place
where their worm
never dies.
I’ve looked for Christ
inside the echoes
of St. John the Divine;
inside cerebral chat rooms,
and their theological
debates; in the downcast
eyes of the homeless.
Salvatore – salutation –
salvation.
I used to believe salvation
was simple until I read
the demons believe
and tremble.
What does it mean
to work out your salvation
with fear and trembling?
The senses lie by omission;
ask any pilot who has
pulled the plane out
out of a graveyard spiral –
spatial disorientation.
The ego, the door
I stubbed my big toe on.
Yet I am to trust
I’ve been born of water
and the Spirit?
Christ says His sheep
will hear His voice;
I am listening.
High Anxiety
Squint into the white
horizon just over the sand
dunes, down the street
from the dive bar,
an F-bomb away
from spontaneous
combustion – exploding
particles – gun smoke,
a sneeze, the way a shaft
of light illuminates
the dust mite; static energy,
neediness, sleep paralysis;
the jump-scares
from dollar store, bake pan
springing inside a preheated
oven; a heart grown tired
of its chronic techno,
house beat; the pet bird
made bald from missing
its master; movie trailers,
sleep-eating, raw juicing;
the incessant meows
of a deaf cat;
fingers gesture a flesh-gun
now pointing to the head,
a thumb hovers
over an invisible trigger,
before the big bang
makes a sound.
Carolynn Kingyens
Carolynn Kingyens lives with her beautiful family in NYC. Her poems have been featured in Boxcar Poetry Journal, Glass Poetry Journal, Word Riot, The Potomac, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Across the Margin, and The Orange Room Review. Her poem, “Washing Dishes” was nominated for Best New Poets by Silenced Press.
Beautiful work!