three poems
by Cynthia Atkins
Cigarette
Like no one else, she gets me.
High heels and daggers, lip-kissed to hold
every eye in the room. In the beginning,
she’s virginal as a new penny.
Everything is possibility.
We’re flirting with the door bouncers.
All glitz and suntan, sassy as a Florida orange.
No apologies, the sticky sweet, the nicotine
peddling my slender fingers.
Where and when did I learn to love only
what is tainted?—Six of seven days,
the jelly jars are filled with melancholy.
Paper thin, yellow walls. She’s the one
who greets my darkest corner.
She takes the lumps, grist, fat cells of angst,
what all the old boyfriends wouldn’t.
When the meds quit, she teased
her flag, on every distant shoreline.
Neon flicker, clubbing out the sadness.
I sit with trees of bandwidth. Halfway there—
She leaves with the drummer.
Worse-case-scenarios—The badly tipped
waitress with a run in her stocking.
The smelly pier at sunset. The smoke rings
slammed into an iceberg, not in the sea, but a junkyard
of barking dogs. Once, so mad at my dad, my mom
botched my haircut. I was chastised to tears.
Holy steeple of prayers, the first exhale.
Can a bell be un-rung?—
Ache bellows deep, it’s like leaning out a window
to scream, like burning the skin of a new-born.
*Originally published by Permafrost
Dust to Dust
Because my OCD has me whisking and shaking
out the heirloom rug and all the drawers of my clothes—
I shake and fan them out, but the particles will never completely exit,
flaring like dirty stars from in a cloud-filled sky. I keep buffing and airing,
but can never release the arc of my ache. Every day, starting from
scratch, I get out of bed and find every movement repeated.
Pedal to the metal, the din and dander and angst crouch
in the basement where my soul is washed with the laundry.
Bone dry, each sound—Car horn, bird caw, thunderclap of ringing
in my ears is a stark betrayal of my erasure. I will need to burn
my fingerprints with acid, just as my 3rd grade teacher wiped
off the chalk of my name from the black board— a Jetstream behind
the cursive of my 8 yr old hand. I keep trying to evacuate, but it’s an army
infiltrating, a parade of munitions. I have discovered erasure
is also a tincture. Slowly, there is a gauze being measured and wrapped
around me, one day it will be laid in the ground —But until then,
Even a speck of dust wants to be seen, wants to be reckoned with
*Originally published by The Indianapolis Review
Cool Side of The Pillow
Have you ever heard the sound of a screen door
closing old-timer slow?—Inching madness to the edge
of its seat?— Think of shoes on the wrong feet.
And how fingernails scratch the chalkboard
to test your impulses. When the dog shits
in the house, and the house isn’t yours.
Lost keys. Bad haircut. Bad ink. Bad poem.
Broken tooth. Ulcer. Speeding ticket.
Bad job. Foreclosure. Your ovaries tied.
Boyfriend sexting someone else.
Your kid hates you. Your dying friend has
no insurance policy. You’re addicted to soap.
Boss screaming down your throat.
You burnt the turkey. Is it worth mentioning,
that moss has no roots?— We know something
has been tampered with, when the seal
is broken. Only one thing to do, don’t surrender,
turn over your armor, dream a little dream.
*Originally published by The Florida Review, Aquifer
BIO: Cynthia Atkins (She, Her), originally from Chicago, IL is the author of Psyche’s Weathers, In the Event of Full Disclosure, and Still-Life With God, and Duets. Work has appeared in many journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Blood and Honey Lit, BOMB, Florida Review, Review, Los Angeles Review,, North American Review, Permafrost, Plume, Rawhead,, and Verse Daily. Atkins has earned fellowships and prizes from Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, SWWIM Residency @TheBetsyHotel Writer’s Room, VCCA. www.cynthiaatkins.com.