★ ★ ★ ★
He gestures by the red light
And speaks to a ghost. Woodpeckers
Tap holes like code, precise
In eucalyptus peeling bark.
A spectral story in laurel scent.
The ghost forges a hole in the sky
For the man to journey and rest
On the crescent moon.
even the croaking of frogs
comes from outside
the barbed wire fence
I would say I am Korean to escape desert
guard towers. Instead, my parents built
obos of three rounded sea stones, red cloth
on top for my stillborn death. Later they stood
in the center of white silence. Hare that ran
over the waves settled under the winter moon.
Finally, I left from earth and stone to the netherworld.
(‘Obos’, a Japanese term for a pile of rocks, often only three, one on top of another)
Cindy Rinne creates art and writes in San Bernardino, CA. Cindy is the author of several books. Released 2017, Breathe In Daisy, Breathe Out Stones (FutureCycle Press). She is a founding member of PoetrIE, a literary community and a finalist for the 2016 Hillary Gravendyk Prize poetry book competition. Her poetry appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review, Gulf Stream Literary Magazine, Driftwood Press, The Honest Ulsterman (Northern Ireland), The Whirlwind Review, Birds Piled Loosely, CircleShow, Home Planet News, Outlook Springs, and others. www.fiberverse.com