Morning Transport
I.
This time. I am sure.
You don’t. Exist. Random. Soup cans.
Crush. My toenails. The birds. Stagger to their. Time cards.
And punch. In red. She is refusing. To brush her. Teeth. Unexplained. Traffic. Jams clog.
The arteries. This is a mere. Conglomeration. Of sound. Metaphors crack. In my cell.
Like old. Flower pots.
There is no. Such thing.
As a poem.
ii
my car skirts the open trench ducks
the height limit sign flashes its readiness to merge
on aerial pathways tons of steel climbing above the airport call
to mind pleasures of descent the compensations of bearing
divergent angels
even magnetic fields migrate
unmasking the flayed terror of radiation
forty thousand years ago
our ancestors were trapped in caves and invented art.
the little bonfires of my cells bloom red
with their refining flame
peel this poem like a burning orange all
points on the surface
are equidistant from the center
everything is glowing no
every thing
is
glowing the poem
is a bird the bird of my cells
singing to you sing yourself
into me my mirror twin, mouth
bearer of galaxies
open your laughing eyes again
my butter child
and swallow me
Ethan Ashkin Stanton is a husband, father, teacher, and poet in San Jose, California. He is a Jewish pantheist with a side of skepticism. His work often explores the interpenetration of the sacred and the mundane. Every answer brings a new question, and that is how it should be.
Amethyst Review 