Bonnie Jill Emanuel
Two Poems
Citgo Picture
Who, if I cried out
—Rainer Maria Rilke
At the center
of it all is the heart.
I see a stranger
trudging at a truck stop
early morning sleet & light
& the shadow
of the same figure floating
behind him in a floe puddle
like a deadman
size & color
of his own dark
boot ghosted on the ice.
He looks like
a guy I might know
but who can be sure
with a face half-masked?
How this winter glooms
& glooms
but then I think I hear him
humming (!)
something, climbing
into a snow-wet truck.
Funny how you can be
so in your own head
writing poems
about pall or daybreak
or wraiths or grief
or the recipe for cinnamon sprinkle cookies
you know by heart
when a song in a fuel island
under a convenience store
torn awning pinned with glitter
blinking Christmas
finds its way like air.
January wild—
sky shining dark
& violet.
High arborvitaes
wait for snow.
Tomorrow we will learn of more death.
My boots crush
on iced-over grass.
A wake of winter
tree jay startle—
star-white—fly.
I find
a tiny periwinkle
holding at the edge
of the lot
& bend to pick
it crushes
on my mitten.
Still, beautiful
crumbled in gravel.
—Submitted on 12/30/2020
Bonnie Jill Emanuel’s poems appear in SWWIM, American Poetry Review, Mid-American Review, Midwest Review, Love’s Executive Order, Chiron Review, and other journals. She holds an MFA in creative writing from The City College of New York. Born in Detroit, she now lives in New York.
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