Cynthia Atkins

Cynthia Atkins (She, Her) is the author of “Psyche’s Weathers,” “In the Event of Full Disclosure,” and “Still-Life With God” (Saint Julian Press 2020), and a collaborative chapbook. Her work has appeared in many journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, BOMB, Cider Press Review, Diode, Los Angeles Review, Rust + Moth, North American Review, Permafrost, SWWIM, and Verse Daily. She has earned fellowships from Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and Writers@Work. Atkins lives on the Maury River of Rockbridge County, Virginia. Info at: www.cynthiaatkins.com

POEM WITHOUT A CLUB

Last day of school, President’s Day—
Relays, rope pulls, hot dogs, and I’m the last picked
for every team.  All eyes on me, alone in
              my awkward skin. Never been good at clubs.
Put me in touch with a throng of like-minded
folks and all Hell breaks loose.  I’m the burned roast
           at the church supper.  I was born Jewish
in Chicago, but never belonged there.  I’m a Yankee
here in Virginia—Confederate flags on hopped up trucks? —
            Outsider at gatherings, never good at small talk.
The dynamics are dangerous, gibbous. 
—Burn a witch, or a mid-wife at the stake? —
Thoughts doled out like pharmacist pills—I am the placebo. 
In Brownies, I was told to sit with my legs crossed. 
Make new friends, but keep the old,
              one is silver and the other gold.  In sixth grade,
one of the mean girls wrote Jew-slut on my locker—
in black magic marker. Also, a swastika penned small
             as a heart on a necklace. The kids sneered
and bantered down the hall.  She was more popular.
           A mentality co-opts us to measure
the self against the ruin and amplitude of others —
No wonder, I found a hive of quirky associates—
              Where none of us belongs.

ABECEDARIAN TRAIN SONG

Autumn and the quiet
Boxcars of silence, a light
Cordial on each corn row—
Dilapidated barns, our Virginia
Emptying its mountains, as
Fruits on the vine harden and brown.
Gourds, pumpkins, wheat fields dress
Haystacks with shadows folding into an accordion.
I love the smell of your smoky lumber jacket,
Kindling bonfire of our purged baggage.
Longing for the destiny of distant horizons.
Manhandle me in the sleeping car, as
Night deadens the talk of passengers into whispers.
Owls witness our dents in the fabric. O sweet
Pullman of my carriage and rails,
Quilling and fretting over all my secret names.
Railroad ties on every crossing of each ache….
Steam and moans and overcoats.
Trains move us through time and space.
Umbers, Ochers, radiant mustard seed.
Voyeurs on porch steps, father and son
Waving to the trajectory of our passing
X-rays, like souls looking for doorbells to ring.
Yarning the landscape, fumbling to find
Zippers in our freight and wreckage.