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George Cassidy Payne is a poet and social worker from Rochester, New York (U.S.). His work has been featured in the Hazmat Review, MORIA Poetry Journal, Chronogram Magazine, Ampersand Literary Review, The Mindful Word, The Angle, Mojave Heart Review, Red Porch Review, Up the River, and many others. George’s blogs, essays and letters to the editor have appeared in the USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, The Buffalo News, and more. He is the proud father of two beautiful children and works full time as a domestic violence and residential family counselor in Rochester. Mother's Milk From bibs to bigots, how does it happen? A love like a restaurant in Sologne in the Orleanais, and those nights when the body had no brain-back when the first 100 words tasted ancient like mother's milk. Deep TimeDeep time clinging to cliffs. As elemental as paper and spoon. Laughing, spinning, it's just escaping on the run-just molecules packed like prisoners- just portions skinned side down the sweet songs of our crazy sorrows. Deep time is sweet orange blossom water; it is a fluid that cannot be named. We Crashed Into the MythWe crashed into the myth. Melted away, we swallowed all of the atoms with our fingers. We crashed on a sheet of black ice. Without wasting a second, her maple burgundy locks bled out. We crashed on MLK Day, in the sprinkle of a January rain, the sky turned olive skinned and chocolate. We crashed. We crashed. We crashed. Ruthless ImmortalityCovered in a bright burst of December snowfall, the sun struck diamonds smile back. The scent of vanilla essence and Jim Beam whiskey bristling in the air. Each day is a day of endless breaths whisked away together in the infinite setting of golden custard set stars, like the last remaining virgin pine, you give me ruthless immortality. Even a Fool Can Make ItNot even light can escape the baleful vacuum of a chilled apricot. No radiation breakfast; no saucepan wisdom; no ready to serve senators in the dark. Just fruit and rind-that's Eden. And when she heard even a fool can make it, that's when she took the bite. Tied Loosely Into a Knot In front of a child,
the father in you will surely die. Yet the center comes out clean. A dark matter in your eyes. Yes, the holy is a tree stump, or better yet, it is two rogue planets ejected from their birthplaces. Neither created or destroyed, an unborn memory pressing through the ends, on to the edge, tied loosely into a knot.
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