I
think
about
those women,
sometimes, who fluttered
in and out of my life, every
now and then, like strange, bright birds with the power to stop
my heart, my breathing, my ability to speak
or think, even, the spinning of the
earth, hell, time itself, and I wonder where some of them
are these days, all these years later,
where their lives lead them,
and did some-
one, for
some
of
them
at
least, turn
out to be
the “one” about which
so many movies and novels and
songs are cranked out every year, but, what
I guess I mostly think about are all the things
I could have done differently.
Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-two collections of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Thimble Literary Magazine, I-70 Review, Main Street Rag, The Arkansas Review and various other journals and anthologies. His latest collection of poems is “Bullet Holes in the Mailbox (Cigarette Burns in the Sheets) (Back of the Class Press, 2024).” He lives somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe.