Laura Johnson Drunk on Karaoke, Catching Pillow Quills From Heaven, and Vultures Skulking in the Rising Sun

Milestone

Stephanie’s driving and the music’s blasting;

We’re setting fi-i-re to the rain, singing karaoke

like drunks. My mother always kept it low—

To hear the sirens, she said.

I’m lying back; one foot resting on

the open window, wind whipping through my toes.

My husband would explain what would happen

to my leg, should we crash.

He didn’t want us to go alone. “Let’s

do it anyway,” Steph said. She slows.

“Look, Mom, the Florida line.” I lift and tap

My iPhone, capture the sign.

Mystery

The moon half fills my rear-view mirror, 

pale blue fading into the blue of morning. 

Soon it will be gone, and where and when it

will reappear is almost the mystery

I recall from long ago. A child, I

sat on the lawn and pointed to the empty

sky, "The moon was right there yesterday,”

“Where is it today?"  I've forgotten

the answer I didn’t comprehend.

A couple of computer clicks, and

I could know whether it will soon

loom large and orange on the horizon;

shine through backyard branches, full and bright;

turn up sliced-in-half, an after-party cake;

teeter ghost-like on my neighbor’s chimney;

freeze mid-fall, a pillow quill from heaven;

or hide out for a while—a weary celebrity.

I could study its hows and whens and whys...

In my mirror, almost faded away--

It’s an outline of loss and wonder.

I won’t be visiting NASA dot G-O-V today.

Driving to Work       

                                            

Up ahead, the sun rises, cracking the bottom

of a tall white wall. The splinters capture color

and spill it over wheel-holding sitters

in glossy machines. I drive through pink air,

thinking of manila folders and the forms inside

to be filled, copied, scanned, uploaded, and filed

so the state auditors can nod the accommodations

for my English learners--enough, but not too much--

and the numbers and names to back each decision.                 

Far above the sunrise, an airplane inches

over the white like a tiny black bug

crawling across an immense sprawl of sheetrock.

And across the mist, vultures hunch, boss-like,

anticipating what they will pick at today. 

Bio

Laura Johnson is an English/ESOL teacher at Fayette County High School in Fayetteville, GA. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing in 2017, and her

work has been published in Time of Singing, Blue Heron Review, Snakeskin, The New Southern Fugitives, and others. Her first collection of poetry, Not Yet, will be released by Kelsay Books next spring.