by Joshua Horan
The Fortune Teller’s Manual: FAQ
Will I meet the love of my life soon?
In 1891 Eugene Schieffelin released
sixty starlings in Central Park. He wanted
to introduce all the non-native
Shakespearean birds to America.
When will I get my big break?
Reeds sway in the wind.
Walk, until it is time to cross
the river. Before fording it,
cast the seeds from your pocket.
Should I invest my money in this venture?
Birds sometimes fake injuries
to their wings, and hungry predators
follow. Near their nests,
tricksters will take flight.
Self-Portrait Complicated by the Presence of Motorcycles
With phrases borrowed from Richard Thompson’s “1952 Vincent Black Lightning”
In Naples, above all else,
I fear falling.
The cobblestone streets gleam
with oil and rain. The puddles
do nothing to soften the constant
opera of engines,
the bleating of horns.
Wheels rattle until they run
out of road. I imagine
a cavalcade of horse-drawn carriages
consuming the tight spaces
of the city. The smell
of dung and refuse –
a moldy damp that breaches
the gates and walls.
The previous summer when Havana flooded
the upholsterers still came by
on their vintage motorbike.
As they rode, they gripped
thick green cushions for the sofa
to their sides. A geometry of motion.
They dismounted and stapled fabric
to frame. Clothing the naked. Two rhythms
competed. Everything possible
must be reused.
Even the road of this poem.
On my 27th birthday
a guy I crushed on
whisked me from my friend’s
flat to a nightclub on the back
of his motorcycle.
Everyone else went by metro.
I was tipsy and held tight
to a man of leather and chrome.
He had a crush on my friend,
but I was thirsty ready to drink
from the jawline of an ass.
These memories come
to me on the corners
and cafés. A collision of past
and present, as my cells backfire,
die, and are replenished
with frothy cappuccino and second-hand smoke.
I recall a young mother I saw
yesterday afternoon not far
from the Pio Monte della Misericordia.
She held her toddler
astride, and they bounced
along on her motorcycle,
navigating the traffic
along Tribunali. An act
of charity, she honked,
warning me before she passed, and I
had hoped in earnest
that fate would not
break my stride.
Ray Ball grew up in a house full of snakes. She is a history professor, a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated poet, and poetry editor at Coffin Bell. Her chapbook Tithe of Salt came out with Louisiana Literature Press in the spring of 2019, and she has recent publications in descant, Glass, and Gingerbread House. You can find her in the classroom, in the archives, or on Twitter @ProfessorBall.
Joshua Horan is a farmer and father living in rural Vermont. When not taking care of cows, his two wonderful boys Peter and Thomas, and his poet-wife Elisabeth Horan, he enjoys bird watching and taking nature photos. He is anti social media and impossible to find online.