R h o n i B l a n k e n h o r n —

Waiting For The Annular Eclipse

It does seem as though the quality of light is changing.
Sun like a lidded eye,
astroturf casting shadows on itself.
My lover sleeps inside.
I hear him breathing in my mind.
Down the street, someone is building a house
with what sounds like a single goddamn hammer.
More and more I worry
my attention will not hold.
One is not supposed to look directly
at a cosmic event — of course I look.
We’re all drawn to doing what we’re not supposed to.
Last night, we walked the downtown,
past an alley stuck with gum —
a filthy corridor, half-lit like the beginning
of a music video from the 90’s.
There’s something apocalyptic about how tourists
build attractions. Because I’m expected to contribute,
I do not. Instead I touch novelty candy
shaped like lunch meat. My lover buys Turkish delights.
Now he sleeps inside. Now dogs bark
as the light changes. I wait and I wait for nothing
to come to full conclusion.
Wait, I mean, occlusion.

Your Attention is a Channel

I don’t know if I’m afraid of dying.
Dad was. Ghosts, real and imagined,
had started to come to him in the night.
The last time I saw him, he wore
a dog’s face. We passed each other
on the sidewalk, our eyes locked.
I saw deeply in and there was nothing.
He continued home, where the T.V.
was always on. Some people prefer noise,
others turn to god. A lover asks why
I don’t capitalize god in poems. It’s because
I’m afraid of punishment. I was taught
god loves with consequence. My rebellions
have always been quiet, lowercase q.
And Dad died like a dog, inarticulate,
with the T.V. on. He was always losing
the control. I’ve been trying to open
different channels. Pink light behind
the eyelid. Shadow against a brick wall
painted white. There was once a good man,
part dog, who killed and killed
and killed himself long before his body
gave in. Is time a circle or a line?

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