A Biologist in Bliss
​
I met a plant biologist in Bliss, 
Idaho at the Cloud Nine Café. He cruised
the West in a rusty Chevy pickup. 
 
He subsisted in Bliss longer than wished. 
Truck’s transmission, trashed,
biologist, short on cash. 
 
Strange name for a town, he sniffed. 
Maybe then, it was blissful, I said.
I doubt it, he dissed. 
 
We kissed a bit; danced around 
a romance. I was passing through. 
 
Spent a couple days up to my chin 
in steaming water, then blitzed 
out of Bliss. 
 
I want to believe biologist 
broke free, found 
Rapture in Indiana. ​

​She’s grateful her neighbor’s worse.
 
She was selling her
gold, her retirement
silver, to cash in
a car for her new job,
 
folding hotel towels.
Her divorce made her
weep, caught knowing
right and loneliness.
 
Without sleep
aids and only internet
men, she keeps
 
hovering for God
to swoop in, put
her feet to bed.

IN THE PARK
 
several young ladies
carry a large cardboard
shipping container to
a lightly wooded area
they choose a flat
grassy clearing
they disassemble the box
creating a surface
on which to exercise
dance and otherwise
cavort
they laugh

Much like everything in our lives lately, Red Flag's Poetry Express has experienced some delays. We, the editors, want to apologize for this and ensure you we want to continue publishing great poetry through this division of the Red Flag Poetry project. You can expect new Poetry Express poems following the conclusion of our next Fall open reading period. We can't wait!

regenerate
 
I want to grow antlers 
to lose in combat  learn patience 
and humility  attempt androgyny
like those boxes of memories
in the attic covered in decades 
of dust and bat guano  I need to clean
my ears  study the q-tip 
decide if there’s anything worth saving 
or if there’s only trashy thoughts 
repressed into wax-like sap
lacking maple’s sweetness  I want
to identify trees by the accents
of their whispers  know intimacy
like salamanders swim 
with new limbs or rainbow trout
taste shadows  crayfish don’t care
what you call them so long as 
they’re allowed to live purely 

Mother Tongue
 
The tongue that your mother put into your head
As you rocked in your cradle so soundly.
Spectral surgery she performed: 
Fleshy muscles and slimy veins sewn to your throat.
The dancing language twines with your attempts to tame it.
Tripping syllables hide among uncertain emphasis.
Cement lips when you try to speak, 
Wishing words were like milkweed seeds that could slip past your jaw. 
Does your mother tongue do acrobatics?
Curl and flex and press to form the simplest sounds?
Perhaps it is only trying to find a way to escape. 
From that crib, use your mother tongue 
To say Dada first.
Even biology is ironic. 

Sarah Lapean hails from Vermont and attends Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts. She is pursuing a double major in English and Psychology. She enjoys knitting, kayaking, and baking cakes. 

Like a Pistachio
 
Consider something as fragile as a pistachio shell
At first, still locked to its moon-color
counterpart, it may hang loose, open to losing
its one green earring. Even if the pocket feels
secure, like a fly between seam and button
fingers can easily pry it open with one chipper 
pop! Much less violent and silly to peel an orange 
 
A smattering of halves imitates a broken heart
If we were giants, they could imitate units of wind
Cribs for ants, shelves for beetles, dog bowls for mice
Who are the mice’s dogs? Love, often disguised
as a pet, is its own meager sustenance 
We feed it, sleep with it, take it out to piss, yet it almost always dies 
before we do. When it gets sick, we put it down
 
Push pistachios down a hill and listen to their caroling
They sound like pebbles playing in a child’s hand 
or a gumball machine freeing colors. Eating
we are tongue-tied for once because we’re full 
not empty. But they can bang like gunshots, too many
kind words to a headache, or taste like dirt bombs
hair grease, and eyeballs too sore for midnight
 
Ears flicker, eyes flutter, ankles bend to catch the light
My Q-tip tongue licks the salt from paper boats
while Mother asks if I love him, and no
matter how hard I try, I cannot glue the shells back together
to repeat their function. They’ve been handled 
by toes or eyes, not an expert’s touch, not a sculpture
of the stars, one bright, hot thing on every block

The Names of Saints 
 
The ones I remember: caramel-crested 
fields of wheat along the highway, 
Saint Jean, the sun, the smack 
of diving boards, a full stomach, 
my stuffed rabbit’s ears, Saint Cecilia, 
her blood collected on napkins, 
Saint Theresa, the neighbor’s daughter 
toddler-dancing in the grass, 
Saint Francis and his animals, 
the cotton collar on a windbreaker 
I hid under when it stormed, Saint Sebastian, 
his body in a Roman sewer, 
my dad’s calloused hand, a lullaby 
cassette tape my mom played before bed, 
Saint Mary, orchids, chicory, 
the squish of worms under rain boots, 
my baby cousin smiling, Saint James 
the Less, the wrinkles in the church carpet, 
the pictures my brother drew 
in hymnals to make me laugh, 
Saint Joseph with hair like my grandpa 
because they share a name.