Three Poems by Dinah Ryan

  • September 28, 2021
  • Poetry

I have fallen in love with winter,
with the day that ends at 3:45 in the afternoon.

with the man striding along the path grasping
a pink plastic bag that glows incandescent
although it only contains dish soap
and the cat food he carries home after work

with the bare limb that holds its red leaves
high like a flag, small but triumphant

with the lamps already lit beside the path
yellow orbs tangled in webbed branches
their faltering doubles suspended in the stream

with the twins in fuchsia coats
trotting beside their mother, their older
sister scuttling behind, anxious to keep up

with the midnight blue of the policeman’s jacket
beside the turquoise dolphin fountain.

Or, perhaps it is you I have fallen in love with again,
although it is only 9:45 in the morning where you are
and the light falls sere on your uncompleted tasks.

Forgive me. I swallowed these colors and became
a little drunk, but the shriveled green balloon
bumping along the cobblestones, punctuating
the dark, brought me home to you.

Read more

More from The Journal

  • Poetry

    Upon Entering the Unknown University

    By Christopher Chambers

    and I dream of a young woman from Prague / standing beside a red motorcycle as if so much / depended upon it...

  • Postcard Prose

    Post-Op

    By Michael Steffen

    Louis, with his pain, is one long night, with his pain that whines like a siren on tv. 1-Adam-12, possible 2-11 in progress...

  • Postcard Prose

    Torment

    By Michael Steffen

    Ostrich sex, I learn from a ranch hand, is brief, over in an eyeblink. I feel bad. Giant misfit birds — they can’t fly, sing or fuck very well.

  • Poetry

    Two Poems by Christine Potter

    ...We are laughing even though / at the next table, somebody’s father has just died, or / one day soon, someone else will run a fever ...

  • Postcard Prose

    Bywater

    By Jessica Adams

    A manbo I know visited a plantation along the Mississippi with her hounfor and as they stood looking out towards the river, they saw spirits rise up over the levee.

  • Postcard Prose

    The Levee

    By Jessica Adams

    The sea has its ethics, and the right of salvage. The undiscovered country is yours. You come from a small place, a cramped place, where your best hope (as Cook’s would be, for nothing had changed even centuries later) is the open horizon at the edge of the sea. But you always leave ghosts. And the ghosts need a home.

Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose