Patrick McGee is a graduate student at Northern Kentucky University pursuing a Masters of English. His work has previously appeared in The Licking River Review, The Camel Saloon, and is upcoming in the Roanoke Review. He lives in Florence, KY with his wife, two kids, a dog named Boomer, and the three cats that torment him.
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FOUR POEMS
Patrick McGee NOT IN THE STARS
On the Golden Gate, the Bay on the left the window into the limitless expanse on the right. The iron cables cannot contain the enormity of it, blue on radiant blue the gray dissolving into white. The expanse is the shelf to the unknown earth that contains all things possible and thoughtless meanderings of old men and women. The shelf hangs from the orange peel of sun and cradles it. The sun passes through the shelf and casts shadows. People dangle their arms out windows and run fingers through dappled projections, through the possible. They grasp onto things-- a grab bag of the unknown— fold them into their willing chests. We roll down our windows and grab a handful of our own, knowing destiny will groan under the weight of the well-intended. The shadows run cold through my fingers. Destiny presses down. A HALF-FINISHED REALIZATION
We can’t keep our eyes open to marvel at the vastness of silence as it tears the clothes from the trees. Its presence is formidable as the flutter of a moth’s wing brushing your cheek. The trees open the windows. The wind blows through our eyes. The house weeps for all the shouting. The rains come and crowd out the sun with the cold that accompanies them. The light chokes. The moths gather under the eaves of your breath, eager to feel the brush for themselves. They stamp out the rest. Breathe. Beat wings. Let solitude pour through the rooms. It is here. TODAY, THE SUN DOESN'T SHOUT
Today, I learn how to appreciate simple things. The vibrant stroke of a new pen. Snow gathering in the crook of a maple tree. My breath unhinged from yours. Rubbing the memory from my surface like wax polished into a rough plane. The specimen with its wings spread out, its textured color on display for all to see. Pin it to the surface and muffle its cries with tweezed assurance. Watch the maple leaf fall to earth. How peaceful its arc, its sway. How graceful its intent to fly under the shadow of the sun. Misguided. FALL FROM WING
We stand on a rope bridge made from twine. It is fraying. The wind gusts, brings the memory of everything our parents couldn’t be. The bridge sways in time with the wind. A cradle that carries things that tremble. The wind isn’t warm or cold. Just wind, endless and plotting. It’s the slap after a lewd comment. I walk in straight red lines to the garden rimmed in walnut trees as you walk in blue jagged lines. The swallows whisper from the boundary. Their grains of sand fall, the veil that separates the things that are, from the things that were, the things that never can be, and the things that will always be. We stand together alone on a rope bridge. It sways in time with us. |