Lauren McKenzie Reed is originally from Hampton, Virginia. She now lives in Morgantown, West Virginia
completing her MFA at West Virginia University. An instructor at WVU, Reed also participates in the Bolton Writing Workshops, leading poetry classes in dormitories in order to provide an outlet for young poets. She has travelled to Mali, France, England, Ireland and Scotland.
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One of Few Conversations I told you about the lunar eclipse
that you missed from your sky
in Rustamiyah. It was neat,
the red weird moon,
but slow, frozen like my hands
in the lamplight of the apartment
complex parking lot. A shiver of toes
you probably haven’t felt for months.
The e-mails I sent to you
were lost “crossing the pond” –
words drowning in the Atlantic –
our technology so unpredictable.
Or maybe it’s me, so volatile
is the floating knowledge of my wires
crossed. Lies I tell you I believe myself –
a shame, an injury. And we read everything.
Was anyone else looking?
The balconies filled with drunken neighbors.
I pulled my plastic chair from the porch
to the center of the lot to watch
with a glass of discount wine. I met the loud
couple above me. The ones, I’ve told you,
who slam doors at two a.m.
and have passionate fights about vacuums.
You say every day’s the same,
but this is what you’ve chosen to share:
last night, waiting in nowhere,
three hours of sand, middle of darkness
holding out for the flight
that arrived after you left.
I sent a Rubik’s cube for your birthday;
I hope this is enough.
Manual for the End of Days
The first thing to go will be font.
It seems to always start so small.
We will only have this one,
& we will use it without noticing
the Helveticas & Garamonds are missing.
Children will come to you;
they’ll ride miles to your house on beach cruiser bicycles
& ask to be babysat.
Without distress you’ll pack them in your van,
announcing to your mother there’s “another one,”
& drive across town
to leave them back between their picket fences.
Their parents will stop caring either way.
There might be telepathy.
Stay calm:
you’ll think your neighbor’s thoughts
& wonder how you’re suddenly aware
of words like “nigh” & “prehensile.”
While reading the ingredients on canisters of oatmeal
the grams of soluble fiber might suddenly
make perfect dietary sense.
You will forget you went camping only a month ago.
The pebble you slipped in your pocket
or the Ginkgo leaves your girlfriend pressed between
two slivers of glass as a hallway reminder
will seem grey & confusing.
Nature will cease to seem important
though you won’t know why,
& you will not puzzle over it.
That goes for people too.
& most importantly, I lied
when I told you about the telepathy –
there might be silence but
you won’t think other people’s thoughts;
you’ll feel them.
In Late September
1
Sunday is all church-goers and hangovers,
sneakers on the power line heavy with rain water,
Jimmy Hendricks in the café, and excuses:
my alarm didn’t go off, the table leans,
I have somewhere to be.
I still love you in these crowded coffee shops,
when there is no space to speak,
no air, it seems, to breath.
2
Things that are better when other people make them
for you: toast, coffee, the bed.
All the morning chores are hardest. And, so
are your questions, before the shower
or brushed teeth, it’s just my dreams that
muddle my thoughts. I’m still yours when distracted.
I promise I still love you in my sleep,
my moods, my hands in the kitchen sink.
3
Weekends have become new weekdays
with meetings and reports to finishing porting.
Melting ice water swirls color in my coffee cup,
mugs a distant past now, everyone
always moving. But this now, with you,
our beverages and work together here,
enough to make any day a holiday, to feel
like a day off. I’ll love you all our future Sundays.