“Lessons of Survival” and More Poems by H. Lyke

Heather M. F. Lyke is a writer living in southern Minnesota. By day, she works in the world of K-12 education. On evenings and weekends, she creates—builds things out of nothing: sometimes with paint, occasionally with fabric, most often with words. Explore more of her works here: https://heatherlyke.weebly.com

Heather’s work has been previously featured on In Parentheses. Artwork by Margaret Wiss.

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Lessons of Survival

Train the Breath

As the towering buildings
turn golden against dusky sky,
my internal clock declares it time.
I close my laptop, pausing
all open tabs and conflicting voices:
need pulls me toward the den.

Cracking the window just an inch,
I fold the thick cotton eight times—
create the rectangle my sit-bones crave—
and set it on the cool of the tile floor:
center it with the window
before I center myself.

Body curved into lotus,
I breathe sounds of city air
and wait—
I know it will come,
although rarely as scheduled,
always as planned.

Each in breath elongates my spine,
each out breath smooths tensions:
my thoughts fade.
I play with the circle of lights
flickering and dancing behind eyelids
when I hear it—

Whispering through the wind
the freight whistles its arrival.
The left corner of my lip curls.
I notice. Breathe in its melody.
A soothing interruption:
I knew it would come.

Now, I breathe in rhythm with the rattle of the tracks:
the train the syncopated treble allegro
and my breath the baseline
that keeps my body beating.

POTUSex

Melania renegotiates her prenup.
I wonder if it mentions how many times
per week (per month, per year, per election cycle),
she promises to have sex (with him).

I had never thought about Obamas in bed.
Nor about either of the Bush’s
(not until I read American Wife).
Nor FDR’s (until I fell in love with Eleanor).

There was that musical TV show
—Smash—
that got me thinking about Kennedy’s
(or at least about Marilyn’s).

I once I had wondered if Clinton (Hillary)
preferred to outsource the chore,
and it was only in poor form that
Monica was young and easily noticed.

My husband and I don’t have a prenup.
Then again, neither of us
have ever been elected.
Maybe when I’m president.

Survival Whiskey

I had looked forward to unwinding
as tracks wound mountains—
elevation rising
as tracks narrow into a thin capital ‘A’
that tapers off at the horizon.

I was counting the minutes until my signal
should shrink from one bar to none—
until my anxiety
should shrink from strong signal
to powered off.

Certain I’d have two full days
from Chicago to Denver,
with nothing
aside from books, pens, whiskey,
unplanned naps.

But your clan moves in
with oversized luggage banging,
and tinny voices
ricocheting from roomette 4, to 5, to 6,
down to bedroom E.

Your need for full-volume calls on speaker,
for shrill hallway conversations,
for coffee delivered,
drowns the meditation
that was to lead to prose,
to peace,
to sleep.

Your oblivious train tête-à-têtes
have robbed me
of my everything—
except my whiskey.

End of June

In early June, I’ll sweep seeds of pines
off the cool cement of the balcony floor—
perhaps one will burrow and root—
and I’ll dust off heavy flowerpots
to fill them with herbs
to season the summer.

On June evenings, warm winds will
find me in my macramé hammock
and sway me side to side,
rocking me with the cityscape sunset—
a perfect precursor to sleep,
which I’ll do with windows open.

By mid-June, I’ll have already read
four or five novels—brainless fluff
to help me tuck away a tough year—
and each creased-bound novel
will be stacked in order of height
just inside the terrace’s glass door.

But this June, I’ll no longer share the summer
with my kindred neighbor as she nests
in her own oasis a few feet from mine.
The pandemic took her in December.

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