2 poems by Rhonda Melanson

After The Egg Comes Sunshine And More

i)

I flip the memory, over and over. The easy lesson of eggs.

Poached, Grandma used to make. A white blob, struggling
to stay afloat. Squiggly tentacles paddling anxiously in simmering
ocean. Pathetic, to some people. How its tiny trauma bubbles, 
splashing onto the fire.

My own hot mess crying. I'm so hungry! Eat! Before they get cold!
I gobble too fast, those pierced yolks, ignore all that sunshine spilling 
over my toast. I forget all about the kindness.

There were many more breakfasts. 
Time and over again.

ii)

Rinse, wring, repeat. Automatic cycle, this worrying.
A clothesline, strung out, taut as a dirge. Moaning 
under the weight of nothing. I'm the Empress
only with the rags I've imagined.

In moments of clarity, I leave them to dry, letting
gentleness blow its magic. Feel the calm. Perhaps 
taste more of that sunshine, a thick yellow tsunami.
Hope that it will coat me for days.

iii)

Someday, free of light. Yoke-less. I learn to play
in the dark. Turn monsters into mythical creatures.
Become myself a phantom of worries I used to know.






Like The Song Says, Darkness An Old Friend

1.

Dogs at Humane Society. Lost ones answering
to Ginger. Death row ones named Midnight
or Coal. Don't remind me of the one who
died waiting for his owner to return. Devotion
of the purest color.

2.

Mom is lucid today. Wants me to buy more
of the black pants she likes. Two more pairs 
should do her till she dies! She's been up all
night thinking about it. How comfortable
they will be, familiar against her forgetful skin.

3.

Does it matter the name of this quiet river,
its ripples flowing on repeat? When you listen 
with an ear pressed to risky faith, silence 
can be certainty. Not a phobia telling you
all water is darkness and slaughter.

4.

Waiting on subway. Tunnel the color of gasoline.
Can you also taste it? These fossil fuels will kill
us all. Look at the walls- the graffiti of prophets.
The neon suspends us even while train in flight.
Then, a hard miss. Until the next time.

5.

Like the song says, darkness an old friend.
For years, my cocoon; now, a revolution
from within. I will take soft steps, fumble
through a moonless night. A trail without
a blaze. The dust will cover me. 

Return to Journal

A graduate of Queen’s University Artist In The Community Education Program, Rhonda Melanson has been published in several print and online magazines. She is the author of two chapbooks: Gracenotes (Beret Days Press) and My Name is Mary (Alien Buddha Press). She also co-edits a literary blog Uproar.