Brian Rihlmann

THE CURVATURE OF THE EARTH

I was visiting after moving away

about a year ago.

We sat in Owen’s dingy room,

smoking and drinking that nasty port

he liked, and I had an inspiration–

“You want to drive out to the coast?”

It was only about a mile away,

but his legs were swollen with fluid

and didn’t carry him so well anymore.

I knew he probably hadn’t been, in years.

He stroked his thick white beard,

thought about it, then said, “Let’s do it.”

 

He groaned as he climbed into my VW Bus

with a little push from me,

and a few minutes later

we were driving down that washed out

dirt road towards the headlands

at the mouth of the Noyo River.

 

I parked near a cliff’s edge

and killed the engine.

It was a clear and gusty day;

bright sun and lots of whitecaps.

Ocean and sky almost painfully blue.

We sat watching the waves

gnaw at the rocks below,

same as they’d done

since long before anyone was around

to point and say “ocean”

or “waves” or “rocks.”

 

“There she is,” he said.

He pointed toward the horizon.

“Look, from here you can see

the curvature of the Earth.”

He made a little arc

with his weathered hand.

“I see that,” I said.

 

We sat in silence, then.

Two men, lost in thought,

sitting motionless in a shared space

yet each wandering alone

through a wilderness inexpressible.

 

After awhile he sighed and I asked,

“What do you wanna do now?”

He stared off again

toward the curved horizon.

He again traced its arc with his hand

and seemed a little sad.

But after a moment he looked over

and with a broken-tooth grin,

and a sparkle in his eye, said–

“Let’s hit a bar uptown,

check out the broads.”

 

 

 

Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His work has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest poetry collection, "Night At My Throat," (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.

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