RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

 

Nobody Vanishes into Thick Air

Nobody vanishes into thick air,

it is much more a thin air thing, it seems.

         

That rhubarb pie way your crusty dry face turns 

desperate, bulging.

         

Thick air would be much more like some gravy

or porridge, I'd imagine.

 

Not even ghosts can vanish into that.

 

Who But One?

 

Who but one can fill a bed?

Who but one to knock ‘em dead?

 

Who but one by recompense?

Who but one makes any sense?

 

Who but one for nest-less egg?

Who but one to man the keg?

 

All for naught, what I ask of you.

Who but one to enjoy this view?

 

Goya Painted Upheaval

So Well That

Even My Floorboards

Remain Uneven

 

You have to admit

that Goya’s Water Carrier

would look strange at some padded

Friday Night Lights slugfest in the

blighted grain belt,

“La Aguadora,” with that large

orange amphora

and even that simple basket

of food.

No wonder her fate then,

pasted over stuffy gallery walls.

If this is heroism, it is a sad end.

 

The overcast skies behind her

always threatening to open up

in a way she cannot.

 

Her dreams are my dreams,

never realized.

 

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

 

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Our Poetry Archive, Setu, Literary Yard, and The Oklahoma Review.