Two poems (Cyndie Randall)

Concentric Circles

I loved a man once who would say Watch
and cover his mouth with his fist
and heave into it, tip his head back
to puff smoke out from deep inside,
and I knew he wanted me to Wow and ask
where the fire was burning
but I would only nod and say
My turn.

Many Good People Implored Me To Pray

I did sense God –
Jacket puddled at an empty bus stop
Half a bird egg in the roadside gravel
Un-bussed table of crumbs –
I was always just missing him

Many good people and I, we did try
to save each other, prod each other forward
The safest man I knew would tell me so often
to call God my father, he could never hear
God asking him to be one

I once read my grandmother’s journal in which
she did nothing but comment on the weather
She found 365 ways to talk about the sun withholding –
The sky is cloaked in patchy wool
Surely there is light beyond that gray parade –

She never did just come out with it:
I am freezing down here. Where the fuck are you?


Cyndie Randall‘s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Frontier Poetry, Crab Creek Review, Longleaf Review, The Pinch Journal, MORIA, and elsewhere. She works as a therapist and lives among the Great Lakes.


image: Lindsay Hargrave