Martha Christina and Shaindel Beers

Associations, Pond Side
Martha Christina

A splash of orange fin above the brackish water. . .
My father and I cross the Third Street Bridge,
careful of the men leaning and casting
their lines into the polluted lake

The maple tree unfurls its leaves. . .
In the emergency room
there weren’t enough blankets
to warm my dying father;
even if he’d been the only patient,
he couldn’t have been warmed.
His hands curled
over the faded bindings

A Monarch butterfly lights on the honeysuckle. . .
I’ve been dreaming again of my father
when he was healthy. Often
he appears in a cloud of butterflies,
his hands opening and closing,
like their wings


Longing on Hwy 10
Shaindel Beers

The Shell station is a horrible ship going nowhere. She feels lucky that it is
not a Mobil station or the irony would be too much. The cars drift along on
their way to Hwy 10—the only road out of this—the only town—she’s
known. more