April 4-10, 2016: Poetry from Ron Riekki and Ben Britton

Air

The baby next to me on the airplane kept crying,
probably because she’d just lost her job.
It’s like that, air. This string of stewardesses
who make you wish you had more pregnancy
in your life, who make you crave babies
who don’t cry, who sit silent, studying math
in their crib. One pillow plus one pillow
equals a forest preserve. I used to be a teacher.
I found that I studied more than the patients.
I used to work in a hospital where I kept getting
sick. They say you became what you infect.

you should have been my sister

the man says and kisses
his wife
on the cheek

rolling over
he feels her lifting her body
from the bed
and trudging to the bathroom

her voice from the switched-on light says
isn’t it pretty to think so?
and then a soft chuckle

the marriage didn’t last
after that. things were
confused
and not enough said

everything that
could be said
had been