Monterosso by Charles Bryne
Cape Alava
Your feet sink progressively deeper into the sand
As the sun climbs and the weight of your backpack
Slows your stride to a plodding shuffle.
It was firm and wet when you set out, as the tide
Receded from the steep headlands, exposing
Crescent beaches and rocky coves. But now the waves
Convey a growing urgency, with every instance
Lapping slightly closer to the path you trace
Below the rising cliffs, along the shrinking beaches.
You try to pick up your pace.
You are pinched between the cliff face
And the approaching tide. You wish
You had awoken earlier. Eaten faster.
Packed up more quickly. Stepped more lively.
But you did none of those things.
And so you wonder why you deserve
This knotted rope, long ago tied off somewhere
High above, as you clamber up the cliff,
Still slowed by the burden of what you carry,
Grateful for life but chastened that someone
Foresaw the full measure of your stupidity.
Takeout
A dozen crows pick eagerly
At the white box of Chinese
And its gelatinous contents strewn
About the center of the blacktop.
They are ravenous.
Their beaks tug at the long noodles,
Stretching them taut until—pop!
Their necks snap back,
And they devour the scrap.
Eating like ravens.
Not even an approaching car
Perturbs them. It swerves
From sympathy or squeamishness,
And they win another game of chicken.
Even though they are crows.
They pin meat under their talons
Then shake their mandibles to shred
It to bits. Beef, perhaps, or pork.
They don’t eat crow.
Which are smaller than ravens.
They depend on profligation,
On abundance, on waste,
And on the strength found in numbers.
It is far less work.
And far more social.
They own this waste-strewn street.
The spoils belong to them
Because they are persistent,
And brazen, and loud.
And especially fond of chow mein.
The Design of Everyday Things
Form follows function, even when it doesn’t.
This closed door, for instance,
Remains obstinately silent
As to how it prefers to be addressed.
Should I approach from the left, or the right?
Should I lean against it, or tug?
Will it swing away from me,
Or into my face? Is it locked?
Does the knob turn? I’m not even certain
Whether it pivots or slides,
Thanks to its designers and a zeal
To employ their tromp l’oeil cleverness.
Once, my job was to insulate
A Great Man from inconvenience,
So all doors were open to him
And, due solely to our proximity,
To me as well.
It didn’t last.
Now I take my chances with everyone else.
Perhaps this is as the world was meant to be.
Because if by its very existence
An object must fulfill its purpose,
It follows that this door exists to refine
The old saw: When one door closes,
Another may open. Eventually.
Though only through a confluence
Of persistence and dumb luck.
About the author:
Gary Mesick (he/him) is a graduate of West Point and Harvard. He spent some time as an infantry officer, and he now works in aerospace analytics, where he leads a data management organization. His poetry has appeared in North American Review, New American Writing, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. His most recent collection of poems is General Discharge (Fomite Press).
In the artist’s words:
Charles Byrne. I am a photographer and writer with photos in publications that include “Chestnut Review”, “F-Stop Magazine”, and “The Sun”.