Ryan J. Eilbeck

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Ryan J. Eilbeck

Hymns of the Morning

Early on summer days I'd wake to my Dad's wedding band clicking on the ivory keys. His hymns would nudge me awake off the living room couch; my camp site when AC was a luxury we still ignored as a family. There was often no sheet music, no scrawled chord progressions guiding him, just his hands knowing; finding the keys that agreed without looking. At the time, it might as well have been an alarm clock prelude to my chores, the signal that a break from school could still be spoiled slapping paint on the peeling exterior of our house as some lesson of work. But now, I'd speak of this less harsh bugle call fondly. I'd construct it into conversation so it appeared that

Ryan J. Eilbeck

Nebraska

Sometimes I wake up and feel Nebraska, the whole state sleeping hip-side on my sternum. I feel the endless roads parting the flood of corn after a harvest. I rise in line with the straight standing ghosts, feeling fellowship alongside their dry family. We are split ends of the dirt, empty of duty and purpose. I have no greeting for this day. I have nothing to say to the sad souls of my friends that are stretched so far that the tension is almost shouting fill me, fill me How can this state be so long? So, nothing But somehow that nothing is just sadness you can't name, a Grassman rumored-beast that passes barely through the edge of a photograph yet can draw everything into its shadowy stride.

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Hausfrau Haven (No Comforters)

Hungover at the Laundromat; everything on spin cycle. COLD / COLD / MIXED LOAD

An Asteroids arcade game blinks through its demo. Hand streaks near the start button are more visible than the screen. Its counterpart in the corner is burnt out. Unplugged. Quit on.

Christmas music is four weeks early and I'm kind of singing with thirteen quarters and two dryers going. Nauseously, I identify the shirt I'd like to wear the rest of the day; fading jeans that will soon fit tight and right, belt-less.

Suddenly, the underwear. Not mine, alive, somersaulting through the air like an acrobat, leaping over and on top of my rightful clothes, the white waistband smirking, the bright blue briefs yelling HA HA through the leg holes.

My stomach suds up and whirls. The mismatched tornado tumbles on, devouring the past in heated circles.

Calling the Vet

Of course they were doomed, born with a curse; the whole litter mewing, cradled by the torn out seat-stuffing in a hearse on flat tires. Of course we took them; a chance to be gods and healers, our internal boggle turning like mileage to spell "Mom."

We boxed them on blankets and sweatshirts, fixed a water teat to the side within reach, administered formula feedings in a warm kitchen none of it mattered. The weak ones died before the debate on names.

She was soggy-faced, her prize pick wrapped in a cardboard coffin box like a Christmas gift. It weighed less than a Beanie Baby, its yellow eyes shut beneath stuffed animal fur for always. I dug a hole out front with a stone and tucked the box under heavy mud clumps, then smoothed it over.

I bet their mother was out hunting when we stole them; kidnappers with sympathy hemorrhaging from our heads, visions of us in stride with nature We, the dictators of soil, the taxidermists asleep under sewn sacks of stolen feathers.

The door opening on our shoebox ambulance sings a corrugated dirge. With one arm like a sickle, the other a shovel, doomed to bury everything we've touched. Of course they were.

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