Wilson R. M. Taylor
Sixth Ave Slalom
I sidestep a sweating middle-aged man carrying skis
into UPS, hopscotch in and out of the gutter to escape
an Uber Eats e-bike doing thirty the wrong way.
Last week we went camping in Rhode Island,
ended up awake past midnight on rocky dirt, a man
in the next tent shouting into the phone about his stolen
Amazon package. Two workers in blue jumpsuits
plant a tree outside Trader Joe’s. The man in ragged black
always holding the door opens it and says, “God bless.”
I’ve never seen anyone give him change. I browse
the produce; I don’t buy him anything. On the sidewalk
on the way home, blue graffiti: SEA LEVEL 2050—
this island’s known for conquest. I put away
my frozen dinner. The onion I bought is rotten,
but I’m a good citizen: I’ll place it in the compost bin.
~ ~ ~
Family Farms, Cotswolds, UK
Walking the Monarch’s Way my parents and I learn
every manner by which to enter and exit a field:
kissing-gates, stiles, cattle guards, openings in hedges.
On our first day we emerge from the woods, crest
a slow, sweeping hill, and surprise the mothers
and their calves in the hollow on the other side.
“They’ll startle if you walk between them,” you say.
I inch closer for a picture. I’ve been waiting for the right
moment to tell you: “She’s moving in with me this fall.”
You’re silent as we leave the meadow, path indented
by old horseshoes. Maybe you’re thinking of my headlong
dash, hands in pockets, that cost me two front teeth.
That night, couples smile and dance in the pub window:
who they are, were, might be, all overlaid—and at their center,
glittering, a half-illuminated self. Tomorrow we’ll continue
this argument without speaking of it; I’ll point to
blackberry bushes dotting the slope, tart sweetness
between the bristles, “Should I pick some?” and you’ll say,
“I don’t think they’re ripe—not quite, not yet.”
~ ~ ~
Afterlife
The pool gleams, clean and skeletal;
fallen leaves fill black trash bags.
Tomorrow a man will add chlorine,
I’ll text my friends. We’ll jump into
the cool blue, capture our bodies
in midair, sky injected with sunlight—
my cigarette sheds dead galaxies
into the night. The screen goes
dark. Light lingers. We look out
for what outlasts, burn sand
to technicolor: a mirage
repeated on and off, immortal.
Wilson R. M. Taylor is a poet and writer living in New York City. His work appears in Chronogram, Every Day Fiction, an anthology from Wising Up Press, and a few other journals and magazines. He is a winner of the 2024 Alpine Fellowship Poetry Prize. For more, please visit https://wilsontaylor19.wixsite.com/wilsonrmtaylor.
