Two Poems by by Yvette Managan

Days That Pass

Days pass, funny little conversations, we talk across wire and time and each other. I laugh. You say those same words again and again. Unkempt and forgiven, the night passes between us alone. Winds bluster through houses, down streets. Slender limbs blow far and come to rest against brick houses. I like you.

You know and offer no reply but a smile comes fast. You describe what we do, naked and alone. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you say and I have no idea what that means. Some parts are missing, our box is empty, conversations lead nowhere, we speak in spirals, shift to the left, spar, and yet no one hears. I try and stumble, your words repeat, we circle again and smile. Why say anything at all?

White Water

White water foams ice on legs and there’s a riot in the heart of this stream, fast. Pebbles tumble over toes, round ankles, up thighs and sand in bathing suit crotch so cold no one will go there, no one, no one. Fish jump up ahead, rainbow sunlight gathered on sides and they arc back under, into the torrent of stirred mud, so confusing so bewildering who can think under these circumstances? Not me, no siree. I’ll be glad to be done with this, climb up to safer land, predictable, the hell we see the hell I know, what we will always know.

Profile: Yvette Managan

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