When your uterus and fallopian tubes
drifted by in the clouds, the crows ate
the eyes out of every living being.
When your fingers traced the river
falling below overhanging banks
rain changed its magnetic direction.
When your feet became obsidian
the sharpened edges sliced my skin
and what a beautiful sight it was.
When your mind was an autumn leaf
pushed into the hungry winds of fall
there was nothing left in the pantry.
When your voice became a feather
sunflowers bent into the moonlight
a great horned owl catching the sound.
News Without You
Today, a young child quivered
with excitement, turning
dirty coins in her hand.
A bomb exploded, somewhere
sending flesh like fish food
through a shocked air.
Water was still unfit to drink
the lead pipes leaching
like an old man’s memories.
Birds fell out of the skies
bees died, again, in spring
the last, last, last rhino rotted.
Ice continued to melt and calve
the toes of vacationers
swallowed in killer waves.
My child went to work
her future not unlike mine
when I believed in a future.
People went to market, this day
bought fresh food
or boxed versions of it.
A driver giggling on a phone
flew off a tight turn
and drowned in the static.
Babies were born in unlikely places
dropping into the world
like hungry caterpillars.
Delicious smells of cooking food
filled the air like music
rising in a chorus to lips.
A woman opened her mouth
her eyes closed like wings
a lover’s hands in her hair.
Pushcart nominee Brad G. Garber has degrees in biology, chemistry and law. He writes, paints, draws, photographs, hunts for mushrooms and snakes, and runs around naked in the Great Northwest. Since 1991, he has published poetry, essays and weird stuff in such publications as Edge, Sugar Mule, Barrow Street, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Barzakh Magazine, Ginosko Journal, Aji Magazine and other quality publications.