Flying Island

One Hundred Years Ago by Henry Ahrens The government mail wagon, like an upright coffin, brought influenza to our town one hundred years ago. We couldn’t hold our breath forever, the will to live brought death, a gurgling gasping for air, no relief anywhere, hospitals with winding sheets white and toe tags for patients to die, vaccines grasping and no more effective than garlic sacks around our necks. October came full fear of fall, steam shovels dug trenches for all, a mound of corpses deep in ground, one hundred years ago. Henry Ahrens attended St. Joseph's College in Rensselaer, Indiana, but now resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he teaches a variety of high school English classes. His works have appeared in From the Edge of the Prairie, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Indiana Voice Journal.

West Coast Baby Blueshift* by Henry Ahrens * blueshift : If an object moves closer, the light moves to the blue end of the spectrum, as its wavelengths get shorter. https://www.space.com/25732-redshift-blueshift.html for Natalie Doppler shifts push high-pitched waves to the west higher than a baby's wail. Shadows fall longer than trees and wind blade towers, little candlesticks standing straight in winter's white cake, Earth rolling from the sun, swaddling clouds wrapping her tight. Baby stirs in the womb on the coast ready to tip the balance of many lives and loves. Born this day after a shift change at the hospital far to the west of snow-covered fields and long-shadowed airplanes, light still streaming on the coast, warming ocean breeze brushing waves in mother’s hair. Henry Ahrens attended St. Joseph's College in Rensselaer, Indiana, but now resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, wher

Overnight Flight by Henry Ahrens Over hill poured beaker fog but our plane slipped away before it dissolved. Soon enough my earphones fell out then the man in front of you lost his spine, turned to gelatin, head jiggling. You slipped your shirt off— night terror came screaming over the continent. The attendant stared when you fell asleep shirtless, I shrugged at her—kids. Night fell away gently, parts of the plane rained in sprinkles, soft wafting, engine whining to the furthest diving of subconscious thought. After long descent, aircraft reassembled among streaking blue lights, touched down solid ground. We put your shirt back on and shuffled through the terminal. Henry Ahrens attended St. Joseph's College in Rensselaer, Indiana, but now resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he teaches a variety of high school English classes. His works have appeared in From the Edge of the Prairie, Tipton Poetry Journal, and