John Riley lives in Greensboro, North Carolina, where he works in educational publishing. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Fiction Daily, Smokelong Quarterly, Metazen, Blue Five Notebook, Willows Wept Review, The Dead Mule, Otoliths, and other places online and in print. He is an assistant fiction editor at Ablemuse. ---------
First Job
I thought each day died inside the clock.
Punching in at seven sharp to stand
eight hours and listen to a turret lathe clack.
Eating a roach coach sandwich and reading my stained
—Paris spring, matadors, whiskey—
and greasy copy of A Moveable Feast.
“Preacher Charlie” with his daily chant:
“You won't be saved by a drunken sinner's book.”
The office girl with her micro-mini skirts
who stopped each day to flirt and spin a peek
of blue or white or magical pink panties.
The stamping press quaking the concrete blocks.
A winter morning the pigeons floated out
of the roof's shadow, above the welder's sparks.
Davis Grinding Mill
Even when I tell it, no one knows.
We had a well to draw our water,
a bucket, a pulley, a winch,
a rope. Behind the empty barn a pasture
rode down a hill
into woods that stretched two miles
over two creeks and farther on until
it stopped at the Davis Grinding Mill.
Acres and acres of bramble and pine and maple and oak.
All that woodland owned
but not by us. My two friends and I roamed
it as boys and later took our girls
and drank the mule kick we stole.
I don't go back, but if I did
the house is gone, built in 1878, and the barn.
An immense, immaculate bolted and notch-joined
cattle fence presses against the road.
If you drive on for six point three miles there will be
no sign of the mill
and you'll find that the trees
run out of space
a good distance from there now.
Cake
The girl's hand is pressed against the tree. It's early summer
and her skin is still white with winter. Her boyfriend stands beside her.
Both are laughing, their teeth two rows of washed shells
in the watermelon-stained sunset. There is the scent
of lighter fluid and meat and now at last I reach the memory
of cake between his lips, and how he wanted it, and wants it still,
standing beside the fire-escape, where birds lift
into the alley air.
Sweet Pigeon
"I loved that pigeon as a man loves a woman, and she loved me.” Nikola Tesla
"I loved that pigeon as a man loves a woman, and she loved me.” Nikola Tesla
Stay sweet pigeon.
Swallow the seed.
Fill your pale stomach.
Feel the sunlight
on my window sill.
Hear the sky burn!
Stay sweet pigeon.
Flutter into my room.
Soon the window will rattle.
Clouds will spin like madmen.
Swallow the seed.
Fill your pale stomach.
Feel the sunlight
on my window sill.
Hear the sky burn!
Stay sweet pigeon.
Flutter into my room.
Soon the window will rattle.
Clouds will spin like madmen.
Somewhere East of There
The last time I saw my father he wasn't dead.
He sat on the side of a motel bed in Dallas
and stared at me as though I were blessed.
I'd convinced him I was going to the liquor store
to replenish his supply of Old Crow
but my Camaro was packed and by sunrise
I could be in Tupelo, if that was the route I took.
There was a photo of him on the nightstand.
In the picture he was young and looked a little
like Olivier in Wuthering Heights, if Olivier
had been a car salesman in Jackson.
It's funny how my mind splits in two
when I try to remember what came next.
He sat on the side of a motel bed in Dallas
and stared at me as though I were blessed.
I'd convinced him I was going to the liquor store
to replenish his supply of Old Crow
but my Camaro was packed and by sunrise
I could be in Tupelo, if that was the route I took.
There was a photo of him on the nightstand.
In the picture he was young and looked a little
like Olivier in Wuthering Heights, if Olivier
had been a car salesman in Jackson.
It's funny how my mind splits in two
when I try to remember what came next.
I may not have headed north at all,
took I-20 through Shreveport
all the way to Atlanta instead. I can't recall
which way I went. I do know that when I left
I didn't say good-bye, but did suggest
he stretch out on the bed
and try to take a little rest.
all the way to Atlanta instead. I can't recall
which way I went. I do know that when I left
I didn't say good-bye, but did suggest
he stretch out on the bed
and try to take a little rest.