February 21-27, 2022: Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Lorie Greenspan

Send us your poetry. Click here for submission guidelines.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Canadian Cobra Kai

Five helmeted kids on green
snow machines with
matching outfits

speed around the corner
over the trail by the gated storage

across from the Canadian Tire

and my wife and I are stopped
on the red
and I start chanting: Cobra Kai! Cobra Kai!

so that she laughs so hard
she snorts
and covers her mouth.

When we get home I tell her
that mercy is for the weak,
and that fear does not exist
in this dojo.

 

No Cats in Space

Now I know why they put dogs in orbit.
Space is a vacuum and cats are terrified of
the vacuum. That is why there are no
cats in space. Imagine all those little kitty
heart attacks clearing the atmosphere
only to come face to face with the largest
vacuum known to man.

Lorie Greenspan

Lorie Greenspan is publishing director at a Deerfield Beach, Florida, book publishing company. Prior to moving to Florida in 2015 she was a newspaper editor in New Jersey. While initially inspired by the death of her husband in April 2020, her poetry has wandered a gamut of subjects, including the life that follows death, love, and relationships to those things we hold dear. She is in the process of completing a middle-grade fantasy novel inspired by Alice in Wonderland.

The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Lorie Greenspan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

and now it is time to talk about the eye . . .

not the bones, for they were too brittle
not the tongue or jaw because they remained in place, one not responding to the others
not the fingers or hands because we can’t recall what position they were in, 
arms outstretched to welcome what was to come – 
the air, perhaps.
Not the mouth, which remained shut through the whole thing
nostrils could not collect the breath, mouth could not exhale it
ears listened and I cannot tell you if the left or the right was most receptive.
And you ask, how do you know?
Ah, I say, that brings me to the eye
that would not close.
The eye that captured like a camera the last remnants of what it was to see –
not the machines
not the walls
but my face.
I reached to try and close it and it would not close.
That is how I know
the eye did not want to shake divine life, not yet
not until it recorded every last shape and line and tear from my face.
The eye glared at me as if to say we know what you’ve done through your years . . .
we know how you have held onto a vision, a place, a thing by staring
directly, intently
so that it becomes burned into memory.

And so, my love,
let me do the same.

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: