Thomas Rions-Maehren (he/him) is a bilingual poet, novelist, and chemist. His scientific research has been published in ACS Nano, and examples of his Spanish-language prose can be found in his published short stories and in his novel En las Manos de Satanás (Ápeiron Ediciones, 2022). More of his poetry in both languages can be found in a number of journals, such as Pensive, The Elevation, Tabula Rasa,Welter, Óclesis, and Iguales Revista, and at his website. He is on Instagram and Bluesky @MaehrenTom.
PLUMS
when Sylvia or rather Esther
found herself in the crotch of a plum tree,
looking for her future in their reflective peels:
journalist lover athlete—you’ll forgive me for having
never seen a plum tree before—I imagined
a little girl on Santa’s lap
the line of children waiting,
agitating as she pondered gifts:
notebooks dolls volleyballs a science kit a bike
paralyzed by indecision afraid
to admit that what she really wants is
all of them.
and so when Ms. Greenwood—as we all do at some point—
found herself in that plum tree,
scouring the shining fruits that surrounded her
looking for the perfect choice,
seeing herself contorted in those purple
funhouse mirrors a question popped into my head:
why choose just one?
why not lust for plums all plums,
not just the perfect plum of your destiny but for plums in general –
an insatiable desire for life for all its gifts and adventures?
feel the juices running down your chin.
row your ass off. flee
the country with your lover. finish
college at forty-five.
shamelessly gorge yourself:
tart sweet sour bitter
nourishing
fruit after fruit until with purple teeth and tongue
you fall face first
into the plum wine mud below.
SCARECROW
a canoe in a
typhoon. an amateur
in the ring with Ali.
a Pandora’s box fun bag mystery life.
that’s what I
need. none of this nine
to five nonsense. none of this
Sundays in the coffee shop Mondays
jogging before work.
send me out to the jungle without
food. set an astrophysics exam in front
of me. no studying. permanent record. let me go
on another first date with my wife
blackout drunk dangerously
depressed. make me do the wrong
thing until I get it
wronger; I’ll fail my way to the bottom unlearn
this burdensome knowledge, stuff
my heart with dried, khaki
leaves & burst in the marvelous setting
of the crimson melancholy sun like an Eeyore piñata
filled with fireflies.
SELF-MADE MAN
i need to get up, leave
this musty, doldrum stew. i’m busting
apart like an overboiled
potato. i have to go,
to make my move, but i
can’t. where did i stick
my twig legs? one, i think,
is kicking around in the ocean
making pathetic little circles. the other
has planted itself in a trash
heap out back like a rotten shin bone
bonsai living off the fermented juices
of other people’s leftovers.
one arm has its hand down
the front of my pants. nothing
sexual. just because that’s what
it does. i haven’t
seen my other arm in two weeks.
maybe it’ll drag itself home soon.
my head is in the game,
but the game ended in ’09 & i
wasn’t playing. worse, i couldn’t
even catch the broadcast on TV.
i just read about it
in the psychic newspapers. my heart jumped
ship as soon as we hit
smooth waters. last i heard
(before my ears fluttered north to Mexico
for the summer) my ticker took up
work as an unpaid intern
pumping slush
around a sewage treatment plant somewhere
out in the sticks. pull yourself together, dude
i shout into the wooden backside
of my fallen mirror before melting
through the floorboards, dripping
ferrous inspiration like a rusted-out lead
pipe on the scalps of my downstairs neighbors.
DECEMBER
the dread this time of year
takes on a distinctly British flavor
of nihilism. all i want to do is eat is khaki,
fried, and stare up at the mashed,
grey sky, robbing me of vitamin
D, smothering out the warmth
of meaning. salt. sand. slush. where
is your wonderland? what happened
to the enchanted snowmen with their
clean-burning coal buttons and organic
carrot noses? it’s all slop and frozen
trench foot. gangrenous gloom without the comforting
doom to keep you occupied. the forecast
calls for December, so I guess this isn’t at all
unexpected. some people ski; some
empty bottle after bottle of fickle, liquid distraction. maybe
i’ll make some tea to heat my belly. maybe i’ll
write a manifesto—neon yellow—in the
snow, an ode to
stray dogs and to authority. i mean,
if the sun can’t even be bothered
this time of year, then
what hope is there for me?