Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Two Issue Three
Nanette Rayman Rivera
In the offing is a form of hope.
If you are full of it.
Maybe hope is the same as suicide—opposite
of what being alive must be.
I know: hope is vanity. In the ka-choom slam
the breast sonogram reminds me why I am
in this mouse-gray walled room.
I’m waiting. Horizontal light from the machine
punctuates the bleakness like red dahlias.
Waiting for what?
For benign to begin. For real life.
The technician moves as if made of whipped cream.
Hope’s radiation hacks through the room
like the blade of a reaper.
I am still waiting.
She is bent: spindrifting light from water to air
That showed her this life’s forecast
Speaking headlights all these long days,
Please know you are falling
Through the oceanic bosom of unfolding.
How creaming, she thinks, what refraction does
From air, the chine changes the view from afield.
Today’s dream, they were land washed back by flour-
sacking surf at the womb. She was so young
And the mother was young.
A crest threw them together and tightened around their throats.
A bond forming the blue sea bluer.
Then an agility patched her in concert for all time
To cry a sky.