CYN KITCHEN

Mother's Nature

from her sick bed, unrecognizable
skeletal frame, gnarled hands, mouth
drawn over cracked tongue. wind
whipped revenant of old squalls
that sent us skittering
for cover from heavy clouds
like furrowed brows
weighing down the horizon.
 
black eyes, pupil less,
warn of one more
just beyond the sight line
a gathering storm.
 
she is Samson, hands
on the pillars, we her Philistines
this death her last hope.
when the palace comes down
she’ll take us with it, not all
enough to maim, the scars
a lasting reminder
not love
but that goes by no other name. 
 

Hot Flash

the moon bright enough
at 2 am to throw shadows
down the drive. already
the rooster crows. awakened
by a rising heat – I alone –
in the day still night –
consider the word flash
promise of frugality
fails to deliver. nothing
thrifty about
the oxidation taking place
on my skin, phosphorescent
glow rising out of me.
no longer asleep, I rise
into the night not yet day
brew coffee, as if.
outside, summer has gone
taken with it the color
sound & light that marks it
& left in its place
muted promises of winter
when, after snowfall, I’ll walk
over the hill to the tune of
my own heavy breathing
the crunch of boots in ice.
 

Cyn teaches creative writing at Knox College. Her poems appear such places as Still, Literary Mama and vox poetica. Her book TEN TONGUES was published in 2010 by MotesBooks. She also writes nonfiction and has an essay forthcoming in Spry. Cyn makes her home in Forgottonia, a downstate region on the Illinois prairie.