“Stars Aligned” New Works by R. Glinnen

Best of the Net nominee, Rich Glinnen, enjoys bowling, and eating his daughter’s cheeks at his home in Bayside, NY. His work can be read in various print and online journals, as well as on his Tumblr and Instagram pages. His wife calls him Ho-ho.

Rich Glinnen has had work previously featured in In Parentheses.

Photography by P. M. Chatelain

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Stars Aligned

You could wait until one star
Aligns with another star,
But they already are—
It all depends from where you gaze.

Pretend you’re on the purple planet
That offers the opportunity
You have been waiting for.
Use another window,
Turn the universe,
Corner your angle,

Because even if they are in a row
You will still see one star,
Like a bright nail
Ripe for a sign that reads
“Until tomorrow.”

Powdered Sugar

My mom wishes she had my wife’s self-control,
But I don’t, because then I’d be missing out
On all these beautiful pastries:
Some long, some round, some square,
But all cousins from the same climate
That got snow a few hours ago.

Their flurries fall on my beard,
My mom’s nose is chalked,
There’s dust on my stepdad’s mustache,
But not much,
And my wife’s small chin
Is sprinkled after all—

A gathering of several shapes
Threaded with a family trait
One cannot mistake.

Pot

We are always on his case
Because his belly gets bigger every year.
“Exercise,” we holler in unison.
“Excuses,” he retorts.

He says he can’t do much
Due to his worn-out knees,
Which is why he’s always stirring the pot:
An exclusive upper body workout
Good for the deltoids, biceps, triceps, lats,
Even the aforementioned core.

Suddenly we’re bickering
And not sure what for.

That is, until we notice his churning arm,
And tell him to stop stirring the pot
Every chance he gets—
Muscles grow
When they rest.

Orange

“I bet there’s at least one teacher out there
Who would suggest eating an orange
To someone having trouble meditating,”
I said to my mother, while eating an orange.
“When you eat an orange
You can’t do anything else.
It takes up both hands.
It’s conducive to sitting,
To stopping, being present.
You tend to leave pens and papers
Where they lie, lest they get sticky.
Your tasks wait patiently
And organize themselves
While you pay them no mind.

And then you’ll find yourself
Rested and rejuvenated
From taking the handful of minutes,
Vitamins, and natural sugar
That that orb of pause had to offer,

Which sprouted from a heavenly limb
And fell into our weary laps.
It’s like a break from God,”
I told her, “designed to take
Just enough of our time,
The security of the fruit
Matched perfectly with our hands,
A peel we can infiltrate
While at rest,
So we rest.”

“You can just use a knife,”
My mother responded.

Visit

The cleaved canopy
Of coppery fruit
In the bottom corner
Is the only clue
That she’s in her kitchen,
Where natural light
Wisely swarms her face
And nothing else,
Which is why,
If anything,
She was a Rembrandt.

But now she’s confined
To a contemporary square
Of deli counter glare,
Knifing from all angles
A gasping head,
Tilted on a hill
Of pillows,
Some days to the right,
Other days to the left,
Dictating which side we approach
To ponder
The artist’s intention.