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.