Periodically Unstable Elements
From space, we’re all millipedes
& somewhere my daughter is
watching the same ice I am fall
from a pink sky low enough to
poke a brief hole in w/ her finger
before it closes again like a Jell-O
mold, which like the storm-pink
sky is just in time for the holidays.
Some of us never take a holiday.
Some of us only want to spend a
little more time w/ our daughters,
time not shared only by clouds &
wi-fi & every-other weekends, or
at least when the weather permits.
Sometimes the weather permits no-
thing, not even holidays & then
we send out shovel trucks, sector
by sector, raking blue sky & neon
green & Himalayan pink salt to cut
the ice to slush & chase the slush
down storm drains where no colors
exist. There is no exit from a drain,
just as there is no exit from winter
besides spring, if you call that an exit.
The winter doesn’t care what we call
it, the thousand curses we shower on
local weathermen coast to coast.
‘Tis the season for pissing ice & snow
angels & streets that will be uncleared
until the feeling comes back into my
finger & I can poke a temporary hole
in the cloud, so I can play telephone w/
my daughter, ask her what she wants
me to make for her for breakfast, now
that the storm has blown over to the
east, now that we are on holiday break
& have more time than the time we are
usually allowed & all the salt dries white.
Recent poems by RYAN COLLINS have appeared in Asymptote, Ampersand Review, H_NGM_N, PEN Poetry Series, Pretty LIT, and Verse online. He is the curator/host of the SPECTRA Poetry Reading Series in Rock Island, IL, where he lives. His first poetry collection, A New American Field Guide & Song Book, is forthcoming from H_NGM_N Books.