after Hilbert
The zipper on my laptop bag went bust
at John Wayne Airport in the morning rush.
I was a nightmare at security—
the Baba Cool in stocking feet and dust,
performing a Caesarian. That crush
would see me pull the flat facsimile
of consciousness from broken sack to trough
and slide it on the roller bars. I fumbled
with my belt and dropped it in the tray.
Getting it all together was enough
to deal with on the other side. I stumbled
to the plane and later made my way
through Newark with a lump of Naugahyde
and tangled cable slouching at my side.
About the author
Rick Mullin’s poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including American Arts Quarterly, The Dark Horse, The New Criterion, Rabbit Ears: TV Poems, and…
Read the full bioIssue 18 · June 2013
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
- Poetry
By Robert McDonald
I touch my wallet in my front pocket, I could do it, purchase // them all, leave the overflowing suitcase on a bus stop bench/
for you, oh stranger, you oh person or persons unknown ...
- Poetry
down a washboard roadside through an old forest, /
departing the copse of a quiet village, /
we spy a youth dangling protein by the tail,
- Poetry
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
- Poetry
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
- Poetry
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen /
from society's hands.
- Poetry
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose
