Flying Island

San Souci by Mary Brown I am a large quiet bird I am a newly washed window opening onto the loveliest fog I am a comma, a saga that needs no hero, a long movement adagio a mime, silver faced and unphased I am a loose, gauzy gown I am a giver unable to begrudge anyone anything, sweetly disabled by the others in this roomy moment I am petals unfolded species unidentified I am an elegant cursive ink looped in coos Slowed, I yearn only for what I already hold, arms unburdened I am a casket, a pocket, a cup I am a coin unspent content just to be saved Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana. She taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan University for many years. Her poetry appears on the Poetry Foundation and American Life in Poetry websites, in Plough, Third Wednesday, Quiddity, JJournal, and many other journals and magazines.

Not Nuns by Mary M. Brown The nones I know (not nuns — not nuns by a long shot) but nones , the ones who say none when asked, “Religious affiliation?”— like those other nuns, have given up some things, not men or sex or children of their own, but scripture and ritual, done with all that nonsense, – or maybe those are things they have never known. None of the nones I know are in the habit of meanness, greed, sloth, cruelty or any ungodliness. They are none of those things we religious folk might wish they were to justify our own incessant hunger for church, our failure to know the holy in the daily, to realize none of us knows much of the uncanny divine, no priest or rabbi, shaman or nun, none of us able to understand or unravel much more than the nones. Mary M. Brown lives and writes i...

November Circus by Mary M. Brown We perform in the center of a ring 000000 of autumn labor, the cycle of mulch 0000000000000000000 and crunch, walk the lawn’s tight rope over and over, back and forth, 000000 stand inside this circle and wonder 00000000000000000000 if we are jugglers or clowns, adept 0000 acrobats or lion tamers, so many bright bodies flying through this air 00000000000 and wriggling beneath our feet, our 000 wind-rouged cheeks stinging more than a little until we debate whether 0000000000000 this work we know we need to do 000000 is a ringmaster we are slave to or if 000000 as we always thought, we are daring, 0000000000000000000 colorful, and comically free. From Mary M. Brown: “I live and write in Anderson where I am retired after teaching creative writing and literature at Indiana Wesleyan University for thirty years.”

River That Never Ran by Mary M. Brown I remember the river that never ran beside our house, the little boat we never owned, never rowed, the willows that never swayed, dogwoods that never bloomed. I remember the bedroom I never shared with a sister I never loved, the porch where we never giggled together until deep dusk when we never chased fireflies, never whispered secrets until dreams drifted toward dawn. I remember a sky that never held white clouds that billowed above a field of violets and button bush that never took root and where the old dog we never named Bligh ran wild through the tall grass that never grew. I remember the fence we never climbed, the little bridge at the end of the dirt road we never traveled, the way our granddad never held out his arms so we could come running to him, breathless and laughing the way we always never did, the way we never needed anything e...

From Bleachers by Mary M. Brown We do not sit on grass much anymore, seldom on the slopes of river beds or among clover or dandelion heads. We do not sit on the saddles of horses, almost never settle on the benches of row boats or canoes. We rarely sit in circles now, or scattered in trees, or face to face, knees bent, eyes close-focused or closed to every thing but inner sunrise, the burning ball of our own singular light. About the poet: Mary M. Brown lives with her husband, Bill, in Anderson, Ind. She’s a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition, and she enjoys proximity to all six of her grandchildren. Retired, she taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for many years. Her work appears on the Poetry Foundation and the American Life in Poetry websites and has been published recently in Christian Century, The Cresset, Quiddity, Flying Island, and Justice Journal. ...

Going Deaf by Mary M. Brown For a while it’s mostly bliss, swimming a lovely, negotiable lake, the hush of small fish, or like resting inside a shell, a turtle, a nutmeat, a swaddled babe, pacified and riding the sweet blurry line between stillness and sleep. But later you wonder whether the lake is a roiling ocean you are alone in with sharks, other predators, and water pressure or a kind of padded cell, you the slow prisoner who wonders if anyone else will show up to bring you poetry or mass or whatever you yearn for—a bible, cigarettes, kisses, a knife in a cake. About the poet: Mary M. Brown lives with her husband, Bill, in Anderson, Indiana. She’s a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition, and she enjoys proximity to all six of her grandchildren. Retired now, she taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for many years. Her work appears on the Poetry Foundation and the American L...

When they marry, they make their own vows and their own wedding cake the cutest couple a hyphenated name a trip to Jamaica a strict budget including a hefty mortgage payment a promise to each other never to fake it— — which they break— two children and one who doesn’t make it a nice dinner every Wednesday— steak and baked potatoes or crab cakes a few martinis, gently shaken a decision to relocate mostly for the sake of the children a valiant effort to educate them a modest take in the stock market readjustments along the way and some healthy 401(k)s arrangements for a parent’s wake a quiet cabin at the lake a mess or two— but no grave mistake                     — by Mary M. Brown Bio: Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana, a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition. She taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for many y...

In Guernsey where the ghost of Victor Hugo rides the narrow streets             like a roller coaster, we go to Eucharist at the old Town Church of St. Peter              Port, discover that the Very Reverend             Canon is retiring soon, the after-service cookies and tea designed to mark the day                       in an understated way. We are welcomed, but reluctant to intrude. Later             we learn that Hauteville House is closed                         today, only a placard outside the modest  ...

What to say to a refugee by Mary M. Brown        “Home is the place where, when you go there,             they have to take you in.”    —Robert Frost Here is some water, some bread and, oh, some of Grandma’s lentil soup  Here is the bed you will sleep in, and this one for your son. If you need more blankets, there are some right There is a fresh bar of soap and a light you can turn on— see?—if the night becomes too long Here is where we will gather when we are all awake, have eggs and toast and talk about the future—yours and ours— Here is the place we have all come together, the place we will learn together anew to call home Bio: Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana, a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition. She taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for ...