Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Nanette Rayman Rivera


1. waiting 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. 2. reunion 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.