“Would that be enough,” “Ancestry.com,” and “In pursuit of her dream”

“Would that be enough,” “Ancestry.com,” and “In pursuit of her dream”

Would that be enough

What if I find the one

who fits like a river stone

into the curves of my body

one who likes the food I like

and music too

calls me often with a timber

of adoration in his voice

never forgets to close a door

hang up his coat

sees dust on the table

and wipes it away

what if his star

aligns perfectly with my libra

and he tells me

I’m a goddess among the masses

Would I give up waiting

for the earth to shake

the ocean to roil

my heart to be set on fire


A little spit, a slender vial

a promise of connections

to people who live

in colored shapes of distant lands

on the globe spinning in my hand.

I mail it in and wait

did I really want more cousins

I’ve all but abandoned

the ones I know, the ones

who mirror my brown eyes

sharp nose, wispy hair.

The family knot is fraying

no calls, no shared meals,

sisters don’t speak to each other.

A PDF file shows

a sprinkling of new spitting

cousins - second, third, fourth

and more. But can you blame

me for losing interest after

my DNA reveals that the father

buried next to my mother

is not related to me.

In pursuit of her dream

You can tell a rich Boston girl
from a poor one. After all, that’s
what accents and manners are there for.
Rules of Civility
by Amor Towels

When she was a young girl she was beguiled by the trappings,

the manners, the elocution of a mighty vocabulary.

She would listen for the rich tones

delivered by tongues that were born and raised

in upper crust high rise apartments ruling over lake Michigan.

Knew how to follow the money, how to modulate words,

the subtleties between rough wool and smooth as silk cashmere

worn on the erect backs of gentlemen who had arrived, or held the keys

to the castle in their fleshy hands from the moment they were born.

She understood the usefulness of a late appearance, out of breath

yet without apology, her emerald cocktail dress quivering, announcing

that she had entered the room, changed the molecules, turned heads.

A mere shadow of a smile teasing over her lips created longing

in men’s gabardine pants while ladies pulled in slim bellies,

inched their shoulders back, felt taller.

Skilled in the hallowed art of the entrance and exit, she eventually

mastered the fine technique of staying, swindled herself

into a permanent place among the genteel crowd,

avoided exposure of her coarse beginnings. But coarseness,

she would learn, was also found beneath tailored merino suits

and in the calf-leather seats of a Bentley.

About the Author

Christa Lubatkin

Though she has not had her fill of mountain trails, of late, Christa has settled for lesser walks. She finds her time caring for her husband a difficult and satisfying part of her life now. Her most satisfying work has been as a hiking guide through wonderful landscapes both here and abroad. Her poetry has appeared in the beautiful pages of The Write Launch as well as Haunted Waters Press, Cathexis Northwest, Beyond Words and a Willowdown Books anthology and others.

Read more work by Christa Lubatkin.