By Ken Holland

Featured Art: “Fear Bridge” by Mateo Galvano

I’m waiting for the rain to grow tired enough
to put itself down.

The rivers are flooded with ill-will and
shopping carts freed from Walmart servitude.

People stop talking about the apocalypse
the moment it becomes one.

People stop taking out the garbage
when they see what’s floating in their backyard.

Outside my window, the rivering street rivers
to the left, while my neighbor across the way

sees the street rivering to the right
and refuses to understand how it could be the same river.

I’m reading a book on the means and methods
of early seafarers.

I’m reading my DNA for trace elements
of Polynesian blood.

My orchid has pinned a tropical flower above its ear.
My Persian is stalking the mirage of a dry oasis.

I’ve come to enjoy the mystery of dinner
once the labels have long soaked off,

while my wine still has the grace notes
of the last vintage blessed by drought.

My neighbor swims over and asks if he can borrow
a cup of mercy.

My neighbor swims back with my gun
which his lawyer will use to execute

his last will and testament, as a jury is convened
to bear witness that no one’s yet pled guilty

to living in a state of innocence.

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Ken Holland has had work widely published in such journals as Rattle, Tulane Review, Southwest Review, and Tar River Poetry. He was awarded first place in the 2021 New Ohio Review poetry contest, and was a finalist in the 2022 Lascaux Prize in Poetry. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and lives in the mid-Hudson Valley of New York. http://www.kenhollandpoet.com