Three Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

The Reel

 

I see her. . .riding shotgun, windows down. Bare feet on the dash. Long dark hair whipping around her face. She laughs, stuffs fizzy Pop Rocks in her mouth. Flashback. Before her back ached. Before pain and pills. Before she wanted something more.

 

*

 

She falls in slow motion, the adored main character, over the edge of a cliff. We scream. Melodramatic music plays in the background—each note long, low, hollow. Falling. Job loss. Falling. Restricted pupils. Falling. Low potassium. As she spirals down like a ruffled goose feather, her voice carries on the wind. . .I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. We want desperately to believe.

 

*

 

Silver casket, blue velvet lining. Dark hair loose on a white satin pillow. Eyes closed. Hands over her mid-section. Tears and snot stream down mourners’ faces. Oh, how they play their parts well—those with slippery hands and guilty hearts.

 

film strip ends

slap, slap, slap

steel projector

 

Square Peg

 

My heart beats rapidly. There are too many feet. Too many shoulders. Pressing. Hurrying. I try to focus on one thing—a store’s name, a 50% off sign—but there are too many. And why had I worn this t-shirt today? It’s the one with the square tag in the back of the neckline. It didn’t bother me this morning, but now, my skin feels like it’s crawling with ants. I claw at the back of my neck, but someone bumps my elbow, sending my arm askew. My pace quickens. The food court must be up ahead. Smells of beef, fish, pizza, and a spice I can’t identify assault my nose. I think I’m going to be sick. A chubby toddler lies on his tummy in the middle of the floor screaming, tears and snot running down his tomato-red face. I feel his pain. I imagine my own body pressed against the cool tiles, fists railing against a world that seems increasingly small.

 

someone scribbles

on a yellow notepad

neurodivergent

The Wounded Road

 

She stares into the bathroom mirror,

surprised to see her angled collar bone.

She wonders when she last had a meal.

So many days are wrapped in wispy gauze.

 

Surprised to see her angled collar bone,

she flinches at the unfamiliar lines.

So many days are wrapped in wispy gauze,

discarded clothing strung across the floor.

 

She flinches at the unfamiliar lines,

long, limp hair stuck to scar-marked cheeks.

Discarded clothing strung across the floor,

a testament to black holes in her mind.

 

Long, limp hair stuck to scar-marked cheeks,

she wonders when she last had a meal.

A testament to black holes in her mind,

she stares into the bathroom mirror.

Previously published in Snakeskin Poetry March 2026

 

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College and is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website and check out her poetry magazine:

https://soulpoetry7.com/

 

Three Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

The Ritual of Loss

 

the unearthly silence

that follows the call—

the call that splits time

into then and now,

going-through-the-motions,

the planning,

catalogues of caskets,

browsing for designs, prices

as though looking

for a new fall wardrobe,

the service, mourners’

tears and well-wishes;

I’m sorry for your loss

blankets the landscape

of each raw nerve

of eyes swollen red

of a throat too tight to speak,

and then it’s over—

flowers donated,

thank you cards in the mail,

bank accounts and bills tended,

closets cleaned, memories sorted

into piles of junk

and forget-me-nots

 

One More Breath

 

Before my arthritic bones ache

from the frosty morning chill,

before I slip my body into fleece

and flannels,

before the leaves skitter off like kittens

across the browning hills,

give me one more breath of summer,

one more bath in bubbles of sunshine,

one more chance to dance under fairy lights

and pretend the begonias are still in bloom.

 

When Frogs are Put to Bed

 

Moisture spills from unbuttoned clouds

kissing the grass with diamond lips;

there’s silence in the wood-scented air—

the absence of geese flown south,

the absence of frogs nestled in mud,

the absence of cricket violins now tucked

away in miniature cases;

the hum of summer over,

leaves fall to the ground

like golden-red confetti

and the north wind sweeps

them away with a swoosh

of her new winter broom.

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College, and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling, and she never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/

 

Five Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

Perhaps God is Waiting for a Hallelujah

 

prim, proper—nearly stoic,

people lined into orderly pews,

dresses, stockings, ties, and suits,

voices keeping a low-key rhythm

with mouths opening and shutting

like good little fish,

the sacraments are in tidy plastic cups,

the offering baskets dutifully passed,

the three-point sermon tied with ribbon,

but

what if God is holding his breath—

what if he’s waiting for a little stirring,

a little swaying of the hips,

hands waving to heaven,

heads thrown back in abandoned;

what if he’s waiting for a glory-hallelujah,

waiting for feet to dance like David did

before the Lord,

and what if God came down and stormed

the pulpit with a hell, fire, and brimstone

sermon that shook the rafters, raised the roof,

and what if he said, Can I get an Amen?

 

Enlighten Me

 

oh, great one

full of knowledge,

I am waiting—

a blank slate

designed to absorb

your every thought;

impart your wisdom,

use big vocabulary;

I love it when you talk

            Dictionary;

I’ll spend nights

dissecting the meaning;

you, oh, cosmic one,

on your seat next to God,

how have I survived this long

without you pointing out

my every imperfection?

I’ll kiss the ground you walk on,

now that I have seen your holy shoes;

where would I be

if not under your feet?

 

The Real Planetarium

 

back on a blanket, torso exposed

to the summer’s falling dew,

fingers trace the constellations

as if they’re all brand new:

 

the Big Dipper spills some soup;

I taste it on my tongue;

Andromeda and Gemini

sing a song I’ve never sung

 

Ursa Major prowls for food,

yawning as she lumbers by;

Orion shoots an arrow;

I blow a kiss to the sky

 

Phantom Pain

 

Like a severed limb—

they say you can’t feel

the pain,

yet pain jitters like needles

stabbing the missing section

of your heart,

the chunk that broke off

and shattered like fine crystal

three seconds after the midnight call,

two seconds after the blood drained

from your face,

one second before time

cracked like a walnut

into then and now.

 

Impromptu Childhood

 

Rain peppers my windshield,

headlights on, wipers swishing.

 

I pull into the parking lot,

summon the courage

 

to disembark—so much

for doing my hair today;

 

the drowned-kitten look

is most unflattering.

 

I sigh, grab my umbrella,

getting wet before it opens.

 

I start to sidestep a puddle

but have a sudden fit

 

of inspiration—regression

maybe

 

and I stomp, as hard as I can

then jump to the next puddle

 

and stomp it too;

I must look like a woman

 

gone mad—but I continue

from puddle to puddle

 

utterly soaked to my bones

and happier than I’ve been

 

in a long, long time.

Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Contemporary Haibun Online, Calliope, North of Oxford, Right Hand Pointing, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To contact Arvilla or to learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/

 

Five Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

Circling  

 

If we were dogs, we’d sniff each other 

warily, 

fur bristling on our necks, low growls 

emanating from restricted throats. 

Instead, 

we each take a long step back, 

creating space and distance 

between two bodies 

who once knew each other well. 

We’ve been here before, 

you and I, 

trading glances, each waiting 

for the other to make a move. 

It’s a macabre dance, 

familiar, though neither of us 

can remember the exact steps. 

Too many years 

have passed since we vowed  

to love each other 

till death do us part. 

Too many promises lie broken 

at our feet, like the china plates 

we hurled against the wall. 

Truth is, we were never good together, 

you and I, as evident by the way 

we now pass each other, 

shoulders never touching.

 

 

 

Aunt Josephine 

 

My aunt was a fearsome creature, 

all stiff posture and inescapable grey bun. 

Born in the wrong era, I suppose, 

for she would’ve made a splendid Victorian. 

As a child, I respected her in that way children 

respected all adults with such chiseled features. 

I admired her, too, the way she could sit 

for an hour-long sermon without breaking a sweat. 

We cousins would cast sidelong glances, 

each in on the bet as to what auntie would do 

should a fly buzz in through the open windows 

and land on her steepled vein-mapped hands. 

None ever did though; I suspect they dared not. 

Because even the gumtrees held their sticky breath 

until auntie rose like a pillar of fire for the final prayer.

 

 

 

Survival 

 

Snake slithered through the grass; 

you will survive, he hissed. 

And the canyon walls repeated, 

survive, survive, survive.  

Donkey bared his brawny teeth; 

you will survive, he brayed. 

And the canyon walls repeated, 

survive, survive, survive. 

Water gushed over the cliff; 

you will survive, it gurgled. 

And the canyon walls repeated, 

survive, survive, survive. 

Pigeon flew, wings on wind; 

you will survive, he peeped. 

And the canyon walls repeated, 

survive, survive, survive. 

My heart nudged my ribs; 

you will survive, it murmured. 

And the canyon walls repeated, 

survive, survive, survive.

 

 

Wayward Wind 

 

I looked at your eyes, 

clear for the first time in years, 

lit from within—something called 

hope. 

A companion, a child, a house; 

you were riding new currents, 

stretching wings 

that had forever failed to sustain 

the younger you. 

And I stood there on the cliff, 

clapping, 

screaming myself hoarse 

in jubilation. 

Then it happened— 

straight from myth, 

an Icarus too close to the sun, 

you began falling, 

spiraling toward 

an opaque 

opiate 

sea.

 

 

I Was Sleeping When Spring Arrived 

 

deep under my duvet, 

snoring no doubt, 

refusing to participate 

in Winter’s weary games 

of ice and wind and snow. 

So, I never saw it coming— 

buds, no bigger than buttons, 

bursting from branches, 

gangly green stems pushing 

their way through stubborn soil, 

the sweet unfolding of hyacinths, 

daffodils & confetti-colored tulips. 

Imagine my surprise when I awoke, 

saw the sun creeping through the slats 

of the blinds, heard a chorus of birdsong, 

felt the shift of seasons in my brittle bones. 

Oh, the delight when I threw open my window, 

inhaled the glorious, petal-scented air and shouted, 

It’s Spring.

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College and is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favourite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website and check out her new poetry magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/