Ryan Sharp teaches Language Arts at a charter high school in Clackamas, OR.  In June 2009, he became a graduate student in Pacific University’s Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing program.  He also recently welcomed his first child into this world. 

Two Poems (October 20, 2009. Issue 10.)

Staring Contest

We squint not to blink
because if we blink then
everyone will know
that we don’t know
so we wander dogless
with wide open blind swollen teared eyes
and stumble over curbs
and street signs
and act like we meant to stumble
by pretending it was us breaking into a jog
or that we meant it as a joke
because we need them not to know we stumbled
so we still have leverage
to judge their stumbles
which makes them think that we must be staring well
and that throws them off from the fact that
our eyes are green calloused dark behind our tears
as we shuffle by blurry signs
and drop offs
waiting for some voice to call the contest
and say it was a tie
or name a winner.

Son of an apple

I used to pray every night
that I would grow big
at least six feet tall
and strong
and that I would be an orange
but I still bruised
and grew a stem.

So I shaved the stem
wrinkled my skin real peel-like
puffed out all roundish
and told people I felt “pulpy”
but I still muddied with the passing air.
I could not change my juice.
I could not shake my tree.