academe

SKYWRITER 

These words I write with my whole
body, my whole machine.
Punctuating air on air,
daring such vast space. 

I dizzy with the yaw of “S,”
and pitch of “H,” anticipating
acceleration of “O”—racetrack to
the rush and lift of “W.”

My old tin can fuselage on display;
its few brave passengers
gasp, clutching for walls.
Then straightaway we descend 

to see my work. “Ooh,” we say,
admiring, then start to point
out mistakes: that splotch
in the “M” or the glitch in the “E;”

I should have let up on the stick.
But now we’re grounded, our risky
endeavor a dream of the clouds …
and it all just blows into blue.

—Julie Ann Baker Brin, poetry finalist (runner up), as published in NU's Sheridan Edwards Review, Vol. 18

VITAL SIGNS

I love how he signs
his name on the little notes
he leaves me at home.

Like I don’t know who
wrote them. Giant
Sharpie marker on a 3x3
Post-It®, he fills
a whole page for my sanity. 

“Went fishing with the guys,” or
“Had to go back to work L,” and always,
always, “Dogs R fed!”—the most
important tidbit. Besides
“Love,” of course.

—Julie Ann Baker Brin, poetry finalist, as published in
Newman University's Coelacanth, Vol. 1

CIVILIZED

When we laugh we sound
like chimps but pretend
we don’t. We charade as
if we’re not complete 

animals, tucking our tails
into business-casual attire,
chiding ourselves into seizing
entire days, when there are
only moments. We have

these civilized meetings around
tables, while fantasizing of
being uncivilized under
them, or on them. We grind

our monkey teeth and smile
our gorilla smiles, getting all
excited about synchronizing
clocks, claiming to understand
time.

—Julie Ann Baker Brin, poetry finalist, as published in
Newman University's Coelacanth, Vol. 3

SOMETIMES SOULS

Sometimes souls are sticky.
You have to scrape them
off with a metal spatula.
Or soak them in the sink
overnight—which, of course,
your housemate hates. 

Sometimes souls are fleeting.
You have to retrofit them
with a GPS transponder. Or,
if you get advanced notice,
at least find out their
forwarding address.

Sometimes souls are absent.
You have to conjure them up
with bits of string and
paperclips, MacGyver-style,
or scribble them onto napkins
and carry them in your raincoat. 

Sometimes souls are solemn.
You have to invite them out
to a comedy club. Or shut
them between the pages
of a bathroom humor book
until they finally get it.

—Julie Brin, as published in NU's Coelacanth, Vol. 5

I say to you, flower 

I've seen your sex organs
under a microscope—
I know your pollen well,
blurt-flirting about;
so huge like spikes and voodoo—
armadillos at a convention,
scattering to get to that
other part of you

I've seen how you shake it all,
waving those tentacles to gather
bees, bats, birds
—whatever satisfies
I know your family and
your chemicals and everything
that makes you work.

But I couldn't guess
what you are saying to me

—Julie Ann Baker (Brin)
As published in KU's Kiosk, Vol. 13
(at least a gazillion years ago)