Two Poems | Misha Tentser

2 mins read

Landscape

Standing on the Circle K bat bridge, I’m lonely
in that selfish way. My car, parked in the lot,
smokes from the hood when I push forty-five
and my phone is busted. I have enough money
for either a new phone or radiator. So I descend
into the shade of the bridge, where the bats click,
shiver, and preen. Skylight filters through holes
in the bridge foundation. Dusk falls slowly
here, like an astronaut on the moon. I know
what Gestalt would say: “You’re the astronaut.
You’re the moon.” He’s right. I’ll fix the car,
ditch the phone and drive east until I hit water.
I’ll start tomorrow. The bats are taking flight.

 


Goodyear, AZ

It’s a drive to the Dairy Queen 
Grill & Chill, but the burger combo 
sure is cheaper than a grippy sock 
vacation. I try not to cry 
into the order box. I don’t need 
to tell the man at the window 
I haven’t eaten since she left 
last week. He already knows it 
in my raspy voice and bird shit-
covered car. I graze his hand 
as I grab my bag and pull away.

The sun pierces through the pines 
behind the dumpsters. My eyes 
water as I slurp my Coke. A knock 
on my window sinks my heart. 
The man’s head eclipses the sun.

 


Misha Tentser is the Arizona-born son of Ukrainian immigrants. His poems have appeared in HAD, Midway Journal, North American Review, and Terrain.org. Misha is the author of the chapbook Born in the Wrong Desert (Mouthfeel Press, 2023). He teaches kids how to make chinchillas out of clay at an art museum in Syracuse, New York.