Under Cover of Darkness
A crow flying under cover of darkness, south wind. Blue satin memories of you. Whispers in the window of the room where I sleep. My eyes open. Not trying to remember nor wanting to forget; you are just here. My desire to speak claws my throat, need-sweat leaks from every pore. Wide awake, no dream. Another night numb with wanting you. A Marination of my Brain/Adverse Reaction/Side Effects Screaming empty head. Inside, voices calling, entreating life-or-death Mesmerized, traffic sounds and clock- ticks, my throat sticks shut: I am so tired There is no synapse strong (long) enough to bridge the void from my ears to my tongue. I cannot speak: in a haze of lazy desperation my eyes roll sideways my ears lean toward nonsense noise. I drift slowly. Away, receding, diminishing in a cloud the sound of bitter car exhaust Even as we watch me swallow. Counting the Days I collected first fallen red leaves for my mother when she was in rehab. Married three times, always to an alcoholic, it wasn't until her doctor staged an intervention that she admitted she was. Too late, Pancreatic cancer spread to her liver. Early fallen red leaves, like these, and her blood on pavement, after all the cocktail hours her last husband, who was blind, knocked her down. Why was she always the one who lost months in rehabs for broken bones, never him? These first fallen red leaves under a sugar maple near my house, an alien friend, whose bark I touch every time we pass, whisper. How my mother would've lived later years if she hadn't married every man she dated. My uncle says she was afraid to be alone. After her second husband died, she found temporary balance, worked at a small-town library, walked to work with a bag lunch, relishing the embrace, fragrance of books and independence. These fallen red leaves, pages of the year 2020's story, a year she never saw; when a plague struck, Black men and women were murdered, uprisings, peaceful protests in the streets of cities a president will try to punish by cheating, the election year two civil rights icons died. Our democracy may follow: a dusty grave pounded by boots of maskless masses who follow a madman desperate to stay out of prison. Sun crisps leaves. They flutter away on drought winds, worried at possibility - smouldering cigarette tossed from a car window. My mother, five years gone at ninety, needs no protection from the present. She quit smoking when she was 65. My Mother's Bones Her skull a restless ache beneath my skin, my lips and tension hers. My feet emerge onto my grandmother's path. Calloused, purplish spiders spinning aged silk, weave a story of a life lived. My mother's hands float beneath my fingers, that deformed right thumbnail, while left pinky quirks for my dad. How is it my ancestors rise? So soon? Night falls So soon? Dawn blinked luscious lashes minutes ago. Bio: Rachael Ikins is a 2016/18 Pushcart, 2013/18 CNY Book Award, 2018 Independent Book Award winner, & 2019/2020 Vinnie Ream & Faulkner poetry finalist. She is a Syracuse University graduate and author/illustrator of nine books in multiple genres. Her writing and artwork have appeared in journals world wide from India, UK, Japan, Canada and US. Born in the Fingerlakes she lives by a river with her dogs, cats, salt water fish, a garden that feeds her through winter and riotous houseplants with a room of their own. Frogs found their way to her fountain. Dragons fly by. A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Rachael Ikins An elegy from “The Woman With Three Elbows” coming soon from Rachael Ikins
Fevers of the Mind 
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