ZIG-ZAG
by Cynthia Atkins
Don’t worry, you’ll know me
I’ll be the one crouched beside myself--
Jewish Yankee in a Southern town.
I’ll be the one saving for the next life--
My folded grocery bags
could extend for miles.
Bear with me, I’m saying this
for the last time--
I had been service orientated.
I was the subject
of an experiment in derision--
The sum total, splitting apart,
unrecognizable as a flea. I put out
an all-points-bulletin,
but still couldn’t find myself.
I can’t draw a straight line
for the life of me. But really, I don’t want
your sympathy. I’ll wait my turn. I know how
to suffer, that part is easy--
I’ll be the one with my hands
to my ears— right before a china cup
hits the tile floor. My head gathered
as a small, angry crowd. By and by, my sister loosed
her sanity like a glove. I’ve faked and faked it well.
I hear our ancestors yelling
from the mental ward of hell. We are right to be afraid.
It’s the job we’re here to do. I’ll be the one
with my hands up in the air--
But then, how will I know you?
GOD IS A MEDICINE CABINET
by Cynthia Atkins
This is egregious, the mind’s parlor is being wooed
before breakfast—Even before hitting the sticky
gymnasium floor. The keys to your ethos
held accountable in a drowning pool
of munitions. Swerving on the slickest road like mood
hoodlums on the lam. As if offered a cigarette on
the front lines— to come back and report on
the internal conflict. Yes, every day is triage.
You are the wedge between East and West.
You are someone else’s war chest. The pharmacist’s
widow sanctioned pills like beads in a rosary.
Every day, you are a cloud held-up
by tooth-picks. Battle weary and boot-legged
to the nth—Your body’s cavities hold crimpled labels,
implying you have filled out many papers and forms.
You’ve crossed boundary lines, while red sirens
Howl with the medicinal dogs. On two feet, you landed
here—A cotton-knoll down a lane of pretend,
that flushed moment when as a kid
you learned how to swallow and let go.
Cynthia Atkins is the author of Psyche’s Weathers and In The Event of Full Disclosure. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, BOMB, Cleaver Magazine, and others. She was formerly the assistant director for the Poetry Society of America, and has taught English and Creative Writing, most recently at Blue Ridge Community College. Cynthia earned her MFA from Columbia University and has earned Best of the Net and Pushcart nominations. “Zig-Zag” first appeared in Sou’wester; “GOD IS A MEDICINE CABINET” first appeared in EXPOUND.
by Cynthia Atkins
Don’t worry, you’ll know me
I’ll be the one crouched beside myself--
Jewish Yankee in a Southern town.
I’ll be the one saving for the next life--
My folded grocery bags
could extend for miles.
Bear with me, I’m saying this
for the last time--
I had been service orientated.
I was the subject
of an experiment in derision--
The sum total, splitting apart,
unrecognizable as a flea. I put out
an all-points-bulletin,
but still couldn’t find myself.
I can’t draw a straight line
for the life of me. But really, I don’t want
your sympathy. I’ll wait my turn. I know how
to suffer, that part is easy--
I’ll be the one with my hands
to my ears— right before a china cup
hits the tile floor. My head gathered
as a small, angry crowd. By and by, my sister loosed
her sanity like a glove. I’ve faked and faked it well.
I hear our ancestors yelling
from the mental ward of hell. We are right to be afraid.
It’s the job we’re here to do. I’ll be the one
with my hands up in the air--
But then, how will I know you?
GOD IS A MEDICINE CABINET
by Cynthia Atkins
This is egregious, the mind’s parlor is being wooed
before breakfast—Even before hitting the sticky
gymnasium floor. The keys to your ethos
held accountable in a drowning pool
of munitions. Swerving on the slickest road like mood
hoodlums on the lam. As if offered a cigarette on
the front lines— to come back and report on
the internal conflict. Yes, every day is triage.
You are the wedge between East and West.
You are someone else’s war chest. The pharmacist’s
widow sanctioned pills like beads in a rosary.
Every day, you are a cloud held-up
by tooth-picks. Battle weary and boot-legged
to the nth—Your body’s cavities hold crimpled labels,
implying you have filled out many papers and forms.
You’ve crossed boundary lines, while red sirens
Howl with the medicinal dogs. On two feet, you landed
here—A cotton-knoll down a lane of pretend,
that flushed moment when as a kid
you learned how to swallow and let go.
Cynthia Atkins is the author of Psyche’s Weathers and In The Event of Full Disclosure. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, BOMB, Cleaver Magazine, and others. She was formerly the assistant director for the Poetry Society of America, and has taught English and Creative Writing, most recently at Blue Ridge Community College. Cynthia earned her MFA from Columbia University and has earned Best of the Net and Pushcart nominations. “Zig-Zag” first appeared in Sou’wester; “GOD IS A MEDICINE CABINET” first appeared in EXPOUND.
