PATRICK MEEDS

Frequently Asked Questions About Cloud Migrations

Despite the lights from the city
if the night is clear and I remember
to look up I can still see a few stars.
Inhale deep and smell nightfall’s perfume.
Love like the nail loves the hammer.
We are deep into the documentary now.
The edges blur. The foundation softens.
But don’t worry. Nothing is ruined.
This life can still be perfect.
What is important has been preserved
in brine. Has been packed in salt
and stored in a cool place. A shelter
that has been built inside of me.
My memories are stitched together
out of order. I recall running through
the woods on a soft carpet
of pine needles but that is all. 

In the Year of Our Lord

Where I live there are fireworks
all summer long. Not just on the 4th
of July. All night flashes of red and green.
The boom of explosions echoing
across back yards all over the city.
Everyone is celebrating something.
What’s next? I say we should
normalize drowsy. Going on
picnics at night. Ice cream trucks
trundling along the narrow roads
of the cemetery. Bring back
betwixt. Glorify tugboats.
Give escalators their due.
Grudging respect to the cattle prod.
The sky is not blue. The sun is not
yellow. When you made my coin
vanish I swore it was magic. When
I heard the comedian laugh I knew
he was lying. When the juggler died
I cried. One day a cold hand will touch
us all. I was born twelve days past
my due date and at my funeral I want
balloon animals and a clown.

Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, NY and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe literary journal, the New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, the Atticus Review, Whiskey Island, Guernica, The Pinch, and Nine Mile Review among others.