Today's poem is from Rachel McKibbens:
instead of a note, a tiny black box
I dreamt you became an airplane; miniature windows
lined the left and right side of your torsowith small heads peeking out of them.Some of the people waved. One man blew me a kiss.
Halfway through the dream, it became our wedding.
The arms of your tuxedo removed to make roomfor your wingspan. I fed you cake through your propellors.
When I woke up, I half-wished you were going to surprise me
with tickets to Costa Rica. Or news that you were being transferred
to the main offices in Decatur. I didn't expect to findyour side of the bed engulfed in flames, a herd of fire enginescircling the hole in the mattress.I could not have imagined the tiny islandthat surfaced near the headboard later that night,the bodies of all your ex-loversfloating off in the distance.
Rachel McKibbens resides in Rochester, NY. She has three tattoos of Ramona Quimby. Her poems have been published in Wicked Alice, Frigg Magazine, World Literature Today and The New York Quarterly. Her first full-length book of poetry, Pink Elephant, is forthcoming on Cypher Books (Fall 2009).