Copyright © 2020 Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2020 Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.
Phantom Mother
When the children are gone
to their dad’s or grandparent’s or wherever
the air in the house is stilled, no atoms
in flux over robots and horses and Ninja Turtles.
They’re coming back, this time.
Sometime in the future they won’t,
not really, and we’ll live in stasis,
waiting for holiday visits, not sure what to do
with the unfiltered oxygen encasing only us.
When they go I’ll still be there
like a mother under a curtain
in a 19th century photo,
holding her infants still, faced forward,
hands unseen directing the shot
reminding her children when to speak
and when to hold their tongues.
Future City
A name that evokes
an alien race living in silver towers
is instead a small lot of houses
with caved in roofs
the shell of a dinner club
roads to nowhere, existing
on the other side of the railroad bridge
separate and far from equal
there is a hush as we walk through
as if surrounded by ghosts
as if we’d stumbled into Brigadoon
instead of mid Illinois
Rage, Rage
The darkness of anesthesia
brightens to pain at the count of three
as I am lifted from one bed to another
and hear a familiar voice but cannot
focus to see the one speaking
words that sound like goodbye.
I am still too far gone to care.
Reach for a lonely hand, squeeze,
and fall back into an angry nap
confused, pushed back to a time
before the brain could perceive
anything but danger. Death.
Later, I’ll forget the desperation
for ice chips and consciousness,
the longing for an easy nap.
Awake finally to true dark, the night sky
over an empty parking garage,
stars reflecting off the hospital bed.
Triin Paja
Helen Broom lives and writes in Michigan.