Rachel Contreni Flynn Poems

I sit at the supper table
dressed as a zebra

until my father shoots me.
...

I look down: fish on a plate stunned
by flame and butter, stuck in spicy dust.
A mysterious cricket-language goes on,
glad and satisfactory. But what if I cannot
...

An angry boy hides in the weeds, then emerges with a plastic sack
in his hands. The 18-wheeler moves slowly, enormously along
the rough road, like the years to come with nothing clean or sweet or warm.
...

If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,
...