This week we welcome Nicole Yurcaba to cavalcadeofstars.
Contemplating continental drifts,
Pangea’s divorcing shifts,
I find myself
wishing to see an earth-shattering,
atmosphere-altering, blue sky-blackening
smearing its elongated finger crosswise the sky’s canvas,
painting with Earth’s ocean water, Earth’s battered, broken crust; Earth’s screaming molten magma;
the poisoned atmosphere sobbing ashen tears.
I think I would smile apocalyptically,
waiting for nuclear winter’s chokehold,
“G-god is s-spitting.”
it takes a steady-handed, nerves-of-titanium
sitting tall in the golden seat
of a four-wheel drive
(engine chugging in one-and-low)
to slyly steer Goodyear wheels
against a forested hill’s grass-slicked, limb-licked incline,
drawing taut a rusty, leaden-linked chain,
to free the clay-mud-enslaved
5040 Mustang skid loader
stuck unpurposely by
an impatient man’s
Childhood, Around Age 7
while mermaids lounged in Grandmother’s bathtub;
Confederate soldiers lay in ambush
behind the wrecked barn’s rotting boards.
The Ghostbusters served as gallant knights
guarding the cowgirl princess
locked in Daddy’s fumy lawnmower shed,
and the family Eskimo Spitz
was tied to a green, metal fence post
waiting to be a-saddled and ridden.
At night, aliens buzzed beneath the bed
after a reading of the Bible. “Where do we
fit into that creation story?” they inquired
to the slumbering cowgirl princess,
who had escaped unscathed from Daddy’s lawnmower shed,
kissed the Ghostbusters on their geeky cheeks,
loosened and mounted the awaiting Eskimo Spitz,
ridden away from the Confederate soldiers lying
behind the barn’s ruins, and past the haunting,
hungry Velociraptors, into the family house
to hide in Grandmother’s bathtub with the lounging mermaids,
until the black, cast-iron dinner bell rang
signaling an end.
An Afternoon of Fishing With You on the Potomac’s South Branch
two years together,
and I’m apologetic for the moments
when words escaped as angry bullets,
and triggered streaming tears.
But as I stand to your left
on the ageless river’s
casting white-teethed smiles
and flourescent bass lures,
I imagine that if I were not anchored to you,
I’d be wading the dangerous deep,
casting lures of my own,
dredging swift waters
for the bounty that is your forgiving, unrequited love.
Nicole Yurcaba is a part-time adjunct English instructor, part-time farm hand, and full-time poet. Her poetry, short stories, and photography giving life to the Appalachian heritage have been featured in print and online journals such as Rolling Thunder Quarterly, Decompression, Philomathean, Outrageous Fortune, Bluestone Review, Floyd County Moonshine, Referential Magazine, VoxPoetica, The Literary Underground, and a slew of others.