Wendy Ellis

2012/06/23 § Leave a comment

On the themes of  Amelia Earhart, slut, and conspiracies

Now There is the Circling

Now there is the circling.
The round edges of the rolling horizon
and the circling. The endless watch
until eyes see nothing and the ocean
becomes a featureless field.

Now there is the circling.
The instruments record nothing, not even
the circling. The radio calls go unanswered
until eyes see a white bird calling
and the wings are straightened to follow.

The windows are spun sugar. The wings gingerbread.
Amelia, the witch is blind and cannot guide your plane.

Now there is the circling.
Amelia removes a shoe and drops it into the sea.
Then she is all urgency, all hurry and flight.
Dropping her socks, her pants, her shirt. Her hat.
Her arm held a moment longer, she hesitates, looks over and down
and drops her goggles into the sea.

Circling, Amelia unfolds
and drops a sheet of newspaper into the sea.
And another. And more. Leaving an uncertain spiral
of flotsam, jetsam riding the waves until they sink, broken and lost.

Amelia wears a small gold ring, and when the paper is gone,
she drops it into the sea.
An unlikely pathway disappearing into the surf.
Her shoes, her dear hat.
Her ring. The papers. She follows them around
and down and into a final, perfect descent.
No photo finish. No joyful woodcutter waiting with open arms
for his lost children to return. No joyful cries.

Just a cry like a bird rising up
one long, clear call filling the cabin,
filling her mind like pressure.
Like remembered struggle against so much.

popular song

our bus stop was a miserable huddle
of teenagers who fucking knew
we had nothing in common
no solidarity, no rallying point

I stood  above the group
smoking, waiting to hear the
whine of the bus coming down the hill
made sure I got on last
exhaled smoke as I sat down

find your seat! the driver yelled
to be heard
the radio was louder
than my head and I made
a point of hating the song – whatever it was

I sat unmoved
even when the morning DJ played
the song I’d sung into
my hairbrush at the bathroom mirror
the night before

I let myself hate the girls who sat
three in a seat singing, bopping
and swinging their perfect hair to the beat
chewing gum and talking over their favorite song


I find I am Sitting

I sit in the front seat again to drive myself home.
fast lane

I hold your hand.
I’ve come a long way to be with you, to hold your hand.

I lower myself onto a cushion. I am as still as a fish eye.
I found a picture of you. Behind you, a mirror like a fish eye.

My feet are sore from standing.
My feet are so tired from standing.

Author Biography

Wendy G. Ellis lives in Lancaster County, PA. She is an editor at Unshod Quills. Her work has appeared in Fried Chicken And Coffee, Housefire, and The Montucky Review.

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