R L Swihart


Wall-eye on fishbowl: Night. Bowstrings wrap me snugly in a silk spacesuit. The pianist doesn’t know the TOE but the piano does, so I easily shatter the mad partition.

Like a cat, like a clock, I drag the sleepy aliens into a murky light:
1.      Here W’s look like M’s
2.      Here is a motorman and here is a housekeeper
3.      How many ways can you spell Frances
4.      How many ways can Meador morph
5.      Which wife did you prefer
6.      Why are your parents silent

Sister Mary Martha hasn’t swallowed you whole

The black umbrella billows, kites, and climbs a tree. Then it begins to rain:
        An open window in Westwood and the sun of your face

        Joshua Tree and you teetering above Barker’s Dam

        The card opens and empties confetti into my lap

R L Swihart currently lives in Long Beach, CA and teaches mathematics in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in various print and online magazines, including Mimesis, Blue Fifth Review, and Barnwood.

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