Christine Rhein: Chop Suey
A bright, spring coat hangs on a hook—Chop Suey customers
unaware Wall Street will crash, the country will plunge into war
upon war, torrents of technology. Yet already, in their face-to-face
hunger—no smiles, no laughter shatters the loneliness.
Christine Rhein: The Art of the Deal
Three men sit playing a game, clutching
the cards they hold, the need they feel
to cheat. The biggest man—Elon Musk—
sports a dark, draping cloak, appears proud
of his deep, hidden pockets.
Christine Rhein: Uncharted Waters
Heavy and high buckles the sea.
We complain / we blame.
This is no time for poetry.
Christine Rhein: Miscarriage
I want to talk to you—Alito, Barrett,
Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, Roberts, Thomas
Christine Rhein: Attack of the Five-Foot-Four Woman
In truth, only five foot three and a half,
and attack, too, a bit of a stretch
Christine Rhein: Beware
The noise
of your neighbor starting up his blower,
his whirring just a giant lie.
Christine Rhein: People used to ask
my father for advice — how to fix
a chimney crack,
a sagging porch, how to realign
a patio — bricks upheaved
Christine Rhein: Sunflowers
The whole world
has pictures, explosions
we hold in our palms
Christine Rhein: Our Corner Acre, April Afternoon
Side by side, we dig in the withered flowerbed,
the sudden warmth, and once again you say, See
how much the light has shifted. I nod my head
at another changing season, our aching knees.
Christine Rhein: The President’s Clothes
the drape made to cover any backside,
the pleats to hide extra-
deep pockets. Of course, you can take it
to the bank.
Christine Rhein: Panic
Because it’s too late now
to sound the alarm
over the lack of alarm,
over the sudden
wealth of it.
Christine Rhein: Alphabetical Order
Assertion by committee:
double-dare ethos.
Fibbed goodwill,
handshakes.
Christine Rhein: A Surgeon Writes from Aleppo
We are running out of coffins.
The city burns, street by street—
even the stones are catching fire.
Our last pediatrician has been killed.
