Poetry by Cindy Rinne

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Dear Nomad,                                         
              Relearn    
        
                           I am new body. Now bird. 
That day I become a heron. My white wings spread
grace, calm, and tranquility. 
Creator of light, I walk a carpet of clouds
toward the sun. 
I land with one foot 
on Earth, one in shallow 
water. I wait to hunt.

I miss my spiders.
I don’t know what to think of you.

Resurrect the memory of a sparrow nesting
in one hand and you hold loose the other.
I was an orphan with love letters 
glued to my skin.
Vines wrapped my oak leaves dress.

What remains: The idea of your smile,
a lie about staying 
here, a raven’s wing we preserved in cornmeal.

Vacate my body,
capture the beginning again.

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Deathless


My mother doesn’t recognize me. 
She’s been trying 
to die. Now her brain

is dead, but wet body
is breathing
plummeting rain.

Heads bow,
a moment of silence,
a poem,

before the surgeon removes 
her liver, kidney,
heart. 

A bee hums and 
kisses my hair. 
This harvester

understands the fact
of zero.
I tell him she’s gone. 

I pour 
turmeric for inflammation
down my throat

slather essential oil.
I trust 
my gut and

check off the box 
on the DMV form 
to donate

my organs. Seeds spiral 
in spring winds. Roses help 
each other.

Woodpeckers work together
to store acorns. I bury
my head in the soft arms

of my doll named
Betsy. Am I wrong 
to be relieved she’s gone?

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Cindy Rinne creates art and writes in San Bernardino, CA. She is Poet in Residence for the Neutra Institute Gallery and Museum. Cindy is the author of several books: Letters Under Rock (Elyssar Press), Moon of Many Petals (Cholla Needles Press), Listen to the Codex (Yak Press), and others. Her poetry appeared or is forthcoming in: Anti-Herion Chic, Unpsychology Magazine, MORIA, Verse of Silence, several anthologies, and others. www.fiberverse.com

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