a poetry e-zine

 
Featured Poet - Raina Masters
Raina Masters writes poems, occasionally shares them and is hoping to submit more in the future. Raina spends most of her time daydreaming about faraway places and loves music, the quiet of a walk in cold weather and the happiness a warm blanket provides. Some of her work has appeared in Hobo Camp Review, Chantarelle's Notebook, Drown In My Own Fears, Thick With Conviction and Work to a calm.
 
Poems by Raina Masters
Everyone needs closure, even the dead

Who would even think to look for me
here? My flesh has fed the crows
and the other scavengers that search
these dirt paths for food. At least
my body was good for one last thing.
My outline is firmly embedded in the
earth now, the Spring sun bleaching
my bones. I didn't want to die in
sweat pants but at least they had the
decency to not leave them around my
ankles afterwards. It was quick, you
should know that. They had a gun.
They took what they needed from me,
my bike, my cell phone. They left me
with a few minutes of shame before
they snuffed the light. I didn't hurt
for very long. Turn right at the giant
boulder and follow the grassy path
with the rotted foot bridge. I'm
sleeping under that oak tree a few
feet from the water. Please take care
of my dog. She won't understand.

(Previously published by Hobo Camp Review)



In case of implosion

Clear out the baggage from behind
the screen, from in the closet.
Throw out the fraying panties
piled in the wooden chair with
three legs. Kiss everyone goodbye
with arsenic on your lips.
Send post dated letters detailing
your slow and steady demise.
Explore those last, repressed
fetishes bookmarked on your laptop.
Keep a jar of your breath on the dresser,
keep a crow bar on the night stand.



Mechanical love

Your voice is measured, a perfect monotone drone
that tells me how to get to my sister's new house
on my first drive there, tells me if I should expect
rain and wind, gives me suggestions for dinner.
I don't know how I ever did without you before.
Today, I made you sound British, your deep voice
resonating at 7:30 in morning - "Good morning,
Raina." I can't hug you and you can't make me
waffles and bacon for breakfast. It's not the ideal
situation, but I know you'll never leave me for
a nineteen year old.



Fire takes care of bad memories, too

I watched it all crumble, one section
at a time. The heat broke the windows
out and I stood just feet away while
the curtains I had just picked out
a few weeks ago became engulfed in the
blaze. The dog was in my arms. My laptop
and my cell phone were wrapped in my
jacket and sat in the passenger seat of
my car. I thought about the things I
wouldn't be getting back: my favorite
hat, the one I bought in Philly at a
cute little store on South Street, those
pink heels I never got to wear (they never
went with anything I had), the old tv that
gave a slightly red picture but managed to
hang in there for almost fifteen years.
Then, there was almost relief in knowing
that I didn't have to pack his things so
soon after we'd decided to call it quits.



Sink or swim
-for Sarah

The last sounds I hear are my
car's idle and the faint hum of
my cell phone on vibrate.

I will walk into this lake
like a goddess, let the ducks
and geese watch me slowly disappear
as my long, blonde hair spirals
around the algae tinted water,
as I hold my breath and watch it
ripple around my body.

For a minute, I even thought of
just swimming through the murk,
to get to the other side of the pond
to rid my sinuses of the stench of
this water, until I realized why I
did this in the first place.

I tire of all of this.
There are no answers to find on
my Facebook page or in my car.
I will leave you all to figure out
why I couldn't remain on this earth.

(Previously published by Drown In My Own Fears)

 

Copyright 2014  Chantarelle's Notebook