Carnival Ride, by N.E.Avery

Carnival Ride, In Our Own Words, 2010 (Print)

“Hi—My name is Martha” my cousin said
so sweetly southern-like to a carnie-boy running The Scrambler.
“Would you mind letting me and my cousins ride this ride
even though we’ve run out of tickets?”
Martha’s almost grown lean over the ride’s iron gate,
the soft breeze from her fluttering lashes and
the gently lulling country drawl worked on him.
So charmed was he—he didn’t reply. We walked past
the gate like three green-blue peacocks and climbed into
the red-white benched seat smallest to large. Laughing; feeling so fine.
He walked by—click click clank, click click clank—pushing
the bars down tight on our thighs. Our bench swayed
as the ride begun and we lurched like blown bluebonnets.
I closed my eyes; letting the wind peel them back open.

Philip Larkin: "Talking in Bed"

Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people being honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses clouds in the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.