Relax your body before impact:
the same fatherly edict for a roller coaster
or car crash. The Mamba’s black train cars
slithered up the element. Panic’s cold metal
kiss melded my knuckles to the grab bar
while Dad’s cloud-white hands hopscotched
the higher we ascended. Halfway to the sun,
the crowd below morphed into marionettes;
God steered their strings the same way
I bullied my Bratz: pliable plastic waiting
for its next commandment. Dad didn’t obey
God or gravity. If this is the end, let it be fun,
Dad preached on the behemoth’s back.
My father wasn’t religious, but he believed
in himself. I became a lifelong disciple
as we crested the lift hill, baptized
in the blaze of his smile. My hands followed
Dad’s beyond the heavens. We braved
the first drop together, our screams a psalm.
*Published with Talon Review in July 2022
Mother of Thousands
Propagations bud on the kitchen counter,
dead bodies without the chalk outlines.
Resurrections commence once the blisters
settle on their skin, a testament to their
strength. Crescent moons of loam
didn’t always lurk under my fingernails.
The instinct to nurture noosed me slowly;
I started with two succulents — Machiavelli &
Bugs — whose life expectancy was shorter
than my pandemic attention span.
The aloe and snake plant were housewarming
gifts (burdens). I struggled with self-care.
Seeds of unread messages spread weed-like
across my phone’s face; a drought plagued
my lips because the scabbed skin reminded
me I was alive. I suspected we would wilt
together in the Kansas winter. Their shamrock &
emerald skin thrived despite my neglect.
Water bloated leaves beckoned me into the kitchen
& taught me how to put the mother in nature.
Nowadays, I drizzle water from my Camelbak
into sour cream containers full of low maintenance
children. The windowsill hosts a family reunion.
Marbled pothos pinches pearls from Senecio
rowleyanus’ vines. Gold-toothed snake plant toddlers
scramble from their mother’s soil. Aunt Crassula
ovata slathers anthocyanin thick as sunscreen
on the burro tail’s braids. As I plant a present
for my new neighbor, I am reminded growth
happens with community & communities don’t
compete for light.
Published with Gabby & Min’s Literary Review in November 2023
Aubade on the Morning Routine
The phone’s organ music shakes me
from sleep. My eyelids creak open,
disturbed sarcophagi, while my fingers
find your bicep, a silent plea to stay
in bed. Your tombstone shadow
in the too bright hallway haunts me.
We perform our morning dance
in the crypt-cold kitchen to the clink
of cups, the coffee’s sigh
when the creamer kisses its forehead.
Mold rims the snake plant’s soil,
and I wipe it away while your chin rests
on the shelf of my skull. Our hearts
beat together through sweaters,
a secret serenade. Ribbons of russet
and goldenrod slither on the horizon,
streaks of sun like clock hands ticking.
It’s almost time to go. Your hand,
an anchor, on my thigh while we carpool
to work. My heart stands cenotaph empty
each morning the sun swallows you.
*Published with Peregrine Journal Fall 2022
Adrianna Gordey (she/her) is a writer based in Kansas. When she isn’t writing, Adrianna can be found daydreaming about the Atlantic ocean and assembling overly ambitious Halloween costumes. Her work has appeared in Red Noise Collective, Passengers Journal, Hunger Mountain Review, and elsewhere. Follow her on Instagram @by_adrianna_gordey.
Chantarelle's Notebook 