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Ready Or Not by Susan Johnson

The return of sandpipers meant the return of flies.
Life timed so the world won't explode. Oops.
Press one to hear an owl hoot. Press two to view
light bending round the moon, which is sexier

than you think. When in a boat, you only want
out of the boat. You leave one movie for another
movie but it's still the same movie where the most
articulate among us find it most difficult to speak.

All shock absorbers eventually lose their spring.
In spring, we all have to fledge, ready or not.
You can't see the colors around you until you
pull them apart. Between the Sun and Mercury,

a planet named Vulcan we convinced ourselves
we could see until we convinced ourselves we could
not. Our brains keep telling our brains only part
of the story, as they language us through another day.

You'd be competitive if there was something to be
competitive about. Boxing your way out of a ring
which is square, death a bee inside humming.
It's salt that sweetens the bitter on the tongue.

You live as much as you can but not as much as
you could, cordoned off from other cordons waiting
for a less ominous omnibus to arrive. Thoughts so small
you swallow them whole. Prosecutors will be violated.

Susan Johnson

Susan Johnson’s poems have recently appeared in The Kerf, 3 Nations Anthology, Blueline, The Meadow, San Pedro River Review and The Connecticut River Review. She teaches writing at UMass Amherst and lives in South Hadley, MA.