Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Half in the Bag
A single brass antique candle holder,
the top protruding out of a passing floral patterned
purse that rushes by in a hurry,
she must be late the same way pregnancy scares
are late, rushing around in flushed chubby panic
like that; with the bottom part of her new
brass candleholder half in the bag
slung over boney shoulder…
I can only see the top,
the various arms in need of dusting;
not quite Menorah or octopus,
but enough arms to do the job
which is all any of us can really ask for
on this living breathing Earth.
with artificial flavour
between the grooves,
no longer complete,
but a mere fragment
that has fallen away
down the side of the
only to be discovered
when the couch is
and the cushions are
revealing many little
some of them chocolate
that have melted into
the aging fabric
The Closure of Airspace Just Above Your Nose
ability seems more
than it does any leaning
falling out of the sky
like only child birthday
Over exposure cameras
posing for pictures
in the good name of careful
cruise control celebrity.
and three purebreds
The closure of airspace
just above your
What I love about extremes
is that they’ve never heard of
The way it grows soft with age.
How those under the knife never once
think of Caesar.
I am out in the backyard with a large fishing net.
Lying in wait.
It’s all about the quick twitch, muscle memory.
Acting without thinking at all.
Suddenly leaping out from the cover
of the treeline.
Running across the yard and tossing the net.
Then pouncing down on the net with my knees.
A few squirm for the edges of the net,
but I close them in.
I can’t see the Zs, but I know they are there
because I sleep so well these days.
In black tartan pyjamas
that show off my nothing
to no one.
The rest are still in the enclosure,
but one has escaped.
It could be one of Orwells.
I can’t be certain.
The farmer is angry.
The truck to the slaughterhouse
will be here for loading
in less than an hour.
All the pigs are numbered
with spray paint.
He is one short.
I am enlisted to aid in its recapture.
But I don’t try too hard.
We always cheer for the escaped prisoner,
never the warden.
The farmer’s wife is in his ear so often
you’d figure she lives there.
Tending to her garden of wax.
One pig short.
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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