Three Poems

by Alex Carrigan

Delicate Work

After “tīrath meñ to sab pānī hai” by Rajiv Mohabir

I’ve often considered how much work
it will take for me to make the best
garland of marigolds for you when
I have such stiff fingers to use.

I try to imagine the needle threading
through the calyx, pulling the waxy string
through its core and making sure I don’t
crush it as I pull it through.

I worry I’ll prick my fingers and dye
the yellow petals red, worry
the blood will drip down the garland
until all the flowers are blood soaked.

I try to tell myself it won’t be too hard,
that I’ll find the rhythm and the right song
to hum as I work, and that in a few hours,
I’ll be able to drape this around your neck.

Then, I’ll know for sure that I can be someone
who can honor you, even if I have
to bandage my fingertips before I start.

Together

After “Blue Dents” by Ben Kline

We’ve spent months together
in this cabin, waiting out this blizzard.
I should have been over the mountain months ago,

but you were kind enough to leave the door
unlocked when I was passing by.
You too had somewhere to be in the opposite way,

determined to escape from the massive fall
of snow that deletes all tracks and trails
with the ferocity of a well-worn eraser.

We’ve had time to try and know each other,
to huddle for warmth under thick blankets
and passing hours with calisthenics and anecdotes.

I didn’t know you before the storm,
and once we finally leave this place,
I wonder if I’ll still really know anything about you.

Last Hope

Day 357:

I can no longer see spots in my eyes. Bright light was all I saw when my pod was first shot into space. Now, all I see out the window is darkness. Am I awake or asleep? I don’t know anymore. I feel like all I do these days is sleep. I would love some excitement beyond trying to fit another finger in my mouth. I thought I’d have crashed onto a planet by now, maybe be discovered by some hilariously baffled aliens on their farm and be raised as their beloved son. I passed a lot of planets on my journey, but they’re always too far off for me to be pulled in. I’m starting to wish my parents gave me something to cuddle with in here. Maybe a toy sewn by my mother, or a creature my father wanted to save from extinction. The cold void of space is all that’s around to comfort me, and I’m starting to feel smothered. A panel to the side tells me I have a few days of life support left, and then everything will be dark. I curl in my seat, and know that all I can do is wait for the last light to go out.

Photo by Laura Walter

BIO: Alex Carrigan (he/him) is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has appeared in HAD, fifth wheel press, Sage Cigarettes, JAKE, Inlandia Journal, and more. Visit carriganak.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @carriganak for more info.