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
I faced her toward the river in a shirt/or mid-length camisole. That’s all I had/ to work with in a minute’s time and dirt./ She gives the composition something bad/ to hold against a shadow on the wall.
- Postcard Prose
By Sherry O' Keefe
Beauty is. We are driving back from my daughter’s birthday dinner at the Chop House on the far
side of town. The roads are slick with iced dew from falling snow.
- Postcard Prose
By Sherry O' Keefe
I pick my path through the deep snow and kneel. Mittens off, macro setting on, I still my breath and focus on the shot. The world as I know it freezes, catches its breath and waits for Mother in a Red Coat to snap her shot
- Poetry
By Craig Cotter
I'm approaching 200 stitches in my career/ since going down the ice hill we made/opening a fire hydrant/ in Drayton Plains, Michigan / lectured by a fireman/ who was quite hot.
- Poetry
By Michael Bazzett
This is how I study history. I go there./
I see the sights and smell the smells/
which often entail fresh/
dung, spring/
rain, and copious animal odors.
- Postcard Prose
By Kelly Hill
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose
