Insomnia
my brain buzzes like a mosquito;
bladder’s full of water
at 5 am—
just give me the weight of the heavens,
seeing the curvature of the Earth
as my eyes close again—
the stars continue to wink
without provocation,
(but I don’t see them)
& light outside
is a heavy aquamarine—
I try to reach for you
on the other side of the bed,
but you are already
under the ocean—
please let me sleep again.
radical thoughts of expiration
are buzzing—quiet them all!
let’s inhale—exhale;
swat them away
until everything shuts off
in the almost-waking world—
snoring deep again
sun peeks through
the apartment buildings,
I miss it
until noon
a drone helicopter
darts by the window—
or, was it a dream?
How we love
I gave you my heart,
but you only showed me
the best parts of you,
so when you broke down,
bringing forth the ugly,
I didn’t know what to do—
You thought you would lose me
if I knew everything about you,
but after the first Great Disaster,
no longer the Master of your own
design—
this desert girl is now surrounded
by water,
all was so green. I’ve changed too
& have adapted to all your
moods,
the woolly woods & the sparse
meadows,
the rivers almost empty due to
drought.
But you became used to my intense
feelings,
how sometimes I turn deadly quiet,
& then the grounds shook
violently with my anger.
I am not perfect—you put me on a
pedestal
when our love was new. My tears grew
a substantial fountain. Finally, you
came out of your bubble, & took
me
down, dried me off, & held me
for a while. We held each other—
I see you. You see me.
We are not perfect,
but it’s a great love.
Morning gold
Eastside swayed heavy, like a
lead top.
We are blinded by the glare
of skyscrapers still being born;
traffic does little justice each
morning.
As the driver silently listened
to
Sonido Suave
from Santo Domingo,
we raced towards the sun,
as if we were smuggling gold.
“Look at the stars … & they were
all yellow …”
“I hate it when the singer whines,”
you complained out loud.
“Did you know, Love, that “Yellow”
was a throwaway title? It doesn’t
mean anything …”
except perhaps summer suns, bananas
& lemons. Yellow
was my best friend’s favorite color.
She was born in the summer, first
wearing yellow-
tinged jaundiced skin. She grew up
tall
as perennial sunflowers, her hair was
like yellow
corn curly-silk. She was full of love
& compassion
& she loved Coldplay. Her baby
pictures are now turning yellow—
&
she belongs to the starry skies; we miss her terribly.
Catching your eyes
before I crossed the
panorama,
I wish we were
in
a smaller room,
so I can get closer to
you,
but the
outside
resembles a garden
from the Home
Counties
of England,
& the sun is melting
into streaks of pink
& gold.
It was so
beautiful,
like your teal sleeveless
dress;
all the men couldn’t stop
staring
at you, as you crossed
into the atrium.
Maybe in the next
universe
we’ll be together—when
the blooms
turn to seed, when the
green
turns to copper, when the
other boys
have left the
party
with their chosen
partners.
I would have taken your
hand,
we would had crossed the
promenade
outside the
panorama,
& we would escape the
garden,
going deep into the lit night.
Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at the New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves to travel. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Shot Glass Journal, Vita Brevis, Home Planet News, Cajun Mutt Press, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond (VIII-X), Alien Buddha Press, Jerry Jazz Musician, Rye Whiskey Review and First Literary Review-East. Her poetry collections: Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019, and In the blue hour (Nirala Publications), was recently published in February 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, she now lives with her husband in Manhattan, New York. https://carriemagnessradna.com
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