A blinded child god holds us, folds us
into paper airplanes, origami cranes,
and rocket ships bound for nowhere.
She pockets us with a winsome smile,
locks us up in her trinket box
with the moon that she found on a noon
picnic beside the starry-eyed
rivers of time.
Fine thing, a noon picnic –
as long as you pack enough snacks for the
You’ve met them, haven’t you?
Death, Disease – Famine, too – and War –
always her four favorites. They’re game for it, you know.
Any frolic she thinks up, they drink up.
When the fun’s done, the fearsome foursome,
bloated with souls and laughter, toast.
After the choicest heavenly bodies
have been eaten,
away they dance, the fierce four,
leaving their friend once again
With a wistful sigh and tear in the eye
she empties the contents of her black holes
and rolls the moon between her fingertips
reading embossed messages
nobody sees but she.
Based in Portland, Oregon, Cynthia McGean is an educator, writer and theater artist with a background in social services. Her work spans a wide range of genres, including short stories in publications such as SQ Magazine, VoiceCatcher, Kaleidotrope and The Saturday Evening Post, as well as stage and radio scripts that pop up periodically around the country. Since the 2016 election, she has been increasingly drawn to poetry, both written and performed, as her primary format of creative expression.