Contributor: Brian Rihlmann

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She hears the same old questions
my brain whispers in deep folds
as I drive her grey highways,
and gives me the silent treatment
like she always has,
like any honest therapist.

My tires grumble in protest,
and sometimes whine,
yet she keeps her vow.

Her only answers
are dust devils blowing
across an ancient seabed,
a mirage shimmering
like puddles on the road ahead,
vanishing at my approach,

and the curve of the horizon
beckoning like a wry smile
across her pale sunburned lips
I will never kiss.


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Contributor: Brian Rihlmann

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On the sidewalk
a skinny, shirtless man
with matted black hair
dances with a blanket.

He holds it aloft
like a partner
as he shuffles and swings,
then twirls it
over his head,
around his body, criss-cross
like a fighting staff.

He hurls it to the ground,
jumps and stomps on it,
then drags it in circles,
before scooping it up,
draping it over his head
like a monk's robe.

A lover, partner,
enemy and friend,
it shadows him
in stained olive drab
as he roams the city.


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Contributor: Brian Rihlmann

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Among many other things
I’ve lost as I’ve gotten older,
is the ability to look back
on a particular time in my life:

an ugly breakup,
a ruined friendship,
getting fired from a job

and say,
“This is how it really happened”
with a young man’s strut
in my speech,
the inner scales of blame
tipped confidently,

the monstrous black boulder
of your misdeeds
resting comfortably
upon one side,
the white feather of my innocence
quivering on the other.

Or vice-versa.


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