The Shooter Says Goodbye to Her Love
She says she was not there
last night. But one other
saw her silhouette
of a silhouette
of a bang. Silver clouds
raining cinder
through the windowpane.
She asks what can remain
after hearts
have seen the flashpoint,
knowing suddenly
the moment before
waters boil,
the match lights,
the dove falls
so heavily leaded
to the field?
She wonders if he remembers
all that before
when they were just hands,
hands of hands
weaving lifelines,
feeling the mercury
of bath water. Tepid
but ample to clean away
any hardness of the day
and to feel loved
by the robing
at the end of it all.
When was that warmth
just enough?
The Captain
The Captain slowly pulls
his barge to port as he has done
so many times before.
Red and yellow beacons circle
slowly from the Lighthouse
which marks his shore
from the horizon.
He waits impatiently
for the moment he
can release from salt,
the toil of his ocean.
Haze obscures vision
as he weaves past other
pilots on their
misguided voyages.
He finally drifts to rest
in his usual worn wooden
stool beside the fluorescent
red-yellow glow of the
jukebox.
Five songs for a dollar.
He orders a Scotch.
Door Winds
There are three photos
on our wall that, despite my straightening,
blow cockeyed with each closing
of our bedroom door. The sailors pictured,
so severely angled, now ready to tumble
headlong into the ocean.
This morning, I awoke to wonder
how these photos were still aligned
so perfectly, only to find that my neck
was now crooked. I wonder how much
of our lives is like this? Straining
against the door winds of time
to keep our sailors afloat,
until one day we awaken and everything
just appears normal.
Carlin Corsino is an emergency worker and soon to be Army Veteran. His most recent work can be seen in Rye Whiskey Review and Bending Genres.
