Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

​Pristimantis jamescameroni
 
I dreamt
that James Cameron
made a movie about me
that had nothing to do
with my life
 
and that
I was only referenced
through metaphor
 
the special effects making me
hungry
and orange-brown
 
and it was a box office failure
 
even with 26 explosions
in the first three
minutes
 
and a woman
who jumps off a building
that used to be her
birdfeeder
 
in an alternate
universe.

Secret Ingredient
 
You falsified the evidence, I holler
pointing to a pot of mashed potatoes
on the stove.
 
I just added a little nutmeg,
she says,
it’s the secret ingredient.
 
So you admit to altering the original taste?
 
Go away, she yells.
 
I go sit in the living room
on the couch
leaning my head back against
the wall.
 
It is summer.
Excruciatingly hot.
 
We are both on each other’s nerves.
Stuck in the close quarters of human existence
for weeks.
 
She drops some cutlery in the sink
and turns on the water.
 
I hear what you’re doing in there,
I say.
 
There is no answer.
 

 
Body Doubles
 
The bodies have come together for science.
By scalpel and slab.
Half in the bag that unzips from the bottom.
A tag on the toe like personalised socks.
         
The bodies have gathered in the basement.
Noise complaints are an unlikelihood.
The music is kept at an acceptable volume.
                            
The landlord in the cooler
with the landlady.
 

 
A Blue Colander over My Head as I Keep the Peace
 
The bird squawks at you
they call him a bird.
 
You squawk at the bird
they call you crazy.
                            
That there is a double standard,
my friend.
 
Sure as stretchmarks.
Giftwrapped and rolled down the waxed bowling alleys of hell.
No three ways around it.
 
This is why war happens.
Misunderstandings never cleared up.
 
I can’t speak for you brother,
but the birds around here
know who’s
boss.
 

 
A Ruse by Any Other Name Would Smell like Feet
 
much skullduggery
in the milk minted hamlet
overturned boats
as though the sea had wooden eyes
for seeing
 
and a trawler staggered by,
needle in arm,
trying to hit bottom
 
a tug or two
off in the distance
like competing weightlifters
you never see
                     
a ruse by any other name
a sham
 
deception
in the lobster traps
turning the mind to
butter sauce
 
this is treason
this is lipstick mouths of kissing
 
alert the captain
alert    alurt    
a lurt…
 
cigarettes full
of the smoke of dying
popes.
 

 
Fancy That
 
Pig on the spit, fancy that,
an apple in its mouth like original sin
spinning over the fire
the children on the beach
kicking sand                   
 
engines dropped like past loves
all things concrete turned to craters,
have you misplaced kindness like a staple gun
after thirty years?
 
I cannot believe my ears when they pretend to be my mouth.
People watching is different than voyeurism how?
 
The cab pulled up to the curb
and I climbed in.
 
Like returning to the womb.

​Bio:​
​Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Sacred Chickens, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

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