The neighbor swings a wrench against the frame of a broken bike, so he can’t hear his cat
mewing on the roof at a closed window. It has become clear that my mother wants me to
call the uncle that doesn’t like me because he’s sixty but I wasn’t invited to his party, and
tings pop words off pages. Tylenol, Codeine fall from my mouth in a spicy rush.
I’m not angry;
it’s that I meant to write of my first ferry ride in Seattle, how I made friends there
with an old man’s dog, how she leaned against my legs, how she looked at me over
I wanted to write of the wind on the boat’s windy side. I wanted it to end
with the little boy who heaved bits of bread to the seagulls from his father’s
arms, them hovering beside him, snatching it with their beaks, with him
screaming wildly, or laughing, I mean.
Robin Jordan received her MFA in poetry from Oregon State University. One of her short stories was published in A cappella Zoo and received their Apospecimen Award for fiction. Her poetry has been published in 42opus. She lives in Buffalo, New York at the moment; and is a writing teacher, usually.
Say what you will about MFA’s as manufacturing plants producing poets, but Jordan is an excellent example-plus of what MFA Poetry students become. Ferry is a great poem in the stream of consciousness mode. Along with the stream of consciousness mode, Jordan is just as comfortable writing narratives and experimental writing. She has three other poems to note: The Dock, The Night Before Christmas: A Partly Found Poem, and Driving One Car Going Two Directions.
Next Issue features John Clegg.