Erin O’Bryen hails from Mississippi. Since returning to Chicago in 2018 after eight years in San Francisco, she’s enjoyed attending poetry workshops to write and learn with other poets. Erin participates in GeNarrations storytelling sessions at the Goodman Theatre and has presented at Fillet of Solo. Erin sings, plays piano, and takes ballet, all of which delight and inspire her.
Waltz in Two Summers
It had rained for days
jetties and breakwaters barely visible
Head down searching for sea glass
I found instead a pair of stained glass wings
caught in the wet sand
At first it seemed a mere carcass
but bending down I caught
the faint struggle
and pried him gently from his trap
The perfect feet clinging to my fingertips
in unexpected trust
stuck with me for the walk through the dunes
to a fuchsia tree or something like it
Nudging him to a twig
his antennae now mimicking
the stamens’ spright
I left him to live out his day
And I mine
Do you know about this
the way a thing that flies feels
the grasp of a June bug’s claw
Come go with me
to the dark windowed night
the popping screens
ecstatic with beetles
holding hands
salted in summer
At one time we rode bikes
behind the bug man
Found a bottle for a rocket
Red rover
Ate sour lemons on the stoop
Drank from an iron spigot
Picked off the red dot mites
just like that
one two three
Flight
They are called
the parrots of Telegraph Hill
but really
they are everywhere
Tossed emeralds
glinting in the sun
off the Embarcadero
At happy hour
in Bierman Park
In Nob Hill
beacons
When they call
you must look up
Come come come come come
As petals from the plum trees fall
Vivaldi in the Snow
I have come to this place so many times.
This day with the choir I come to sing the Gloria;
To sigh or sing Baroque and royal notes.
December in Mississippi we awake with surprise to snow;
Its rare romance keeps the faithful in bed.
The director says in Vivaldi’s day musicians played for each other
And not to worry who listens today or how many.
The violist, who plays fiddle on Saturday nights,
Stands and stares at the tall windows before we start.
Small innuendos of light glance off the pine bowed drifts.
Today is Sunday and we are joined together
And the sundry business of church begins:
As the organ settles its score,
The stops grow and open and vibrate in the body.
As the pastor obviates all but eloquence,
The sanctuary soars with radiance.
And altar flowers tremble in the cold
And hours later echo Et in terra pax.
They vibrate, these grand cadenzas,
Translate the century the composer’s pen has passed
Along to us. The organ, its burden made light,
Strikes its bargain with the congregation
Singing “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.”
Tall windows longing backlit by the snowfall
As the Advent season’s tallow glows.
And altar flowers, attentive always,
And the weather-altered arbors
To the sermon and the eloquence
Of the cadence from the rustling choir.
Singing, singing, higher.
The musicians shuffle praise for the soprano and the tenor,
Glorious as fully stocked traditions,
As if to knock real snow from off their boots.
The obligato lifts from the score like a gift from a fancy box.
My sister says a poem is a package of words that you can give away.
It’s Sunday and Christmas is close at hand -
Then sing, laudamus te.
The Athenian Housewife’s Lament
As dainty spring moves fast to ruddy summer,
Now I this household nudge to life again,
The good mechanicals to call to arms,
Yet find them other places occupied.
A play, they say, for Theseus, the duke,
A steady man, and yea, for all his guests,
While I am left to wring my hands and sigh
For all the ragged want of cottage fey.
Quince, the roof, the shingles’ wagging tongues,
The canted frames, Snug, put them back to right,
Bottom, you ass, for new frocks set your loom,
Robin, these coats do fix, then put away,
Francis, mend, for fires need baking bread,
Snout, the pans and pots beg well your hand.
The play, the thing, can wait, for urgent parts
Your friendly band for kern-bards clamor thus
And need we too the balm of laughter’s sun
Flute, to play. ‘Tis almost dinnertime.
Grown
I am a packet
Of wildflower seeds
Someone gifted you
On Earth Day
Before there was an Earth Day
Ransomed to the purpling soil
Who knows what to expect
Milkweed makes sense
If you want someone to care
For you in your old age
Sunflowers are loyal but
Take up a lot of room
Is that why
Though you loved it
You chopped down the four o’clock?
I would prefer to
Be the empty can ecstatic
On the garage roof across the alley
Stuffing itself with
Prairie wind whilst I
Fingerpaint tolerable memories
Of Queen Anne’s lace and
The rattle of mini-blinds
In that cheap apartment
Like someone’s stealing a bicycle
These rooms are way too full
Of sticky paraphernalia
Busted tires please
Don’t let me be left on the side of the road
Face-planted in the primroses.