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About this poet

Carrie Shipers is the author of Family Resemblances (University of New Mexico Press, 2016); Cause for Concern (Able Muse Press, 2014), selected by Molly Peacock for the 2014 Able Muse Book Award; and Ordinary Mourning (ABZ Press, 2010). She teaches at Rhode Island College in Providence.

He Watches the Weather Channel

                   After Reagan Lothes
	
Because nothing else is on so early 
in the morning when he drinks coffee 
in an empty house.  Because almanacs 

are of limited use compared to satellites.
Because spring will have to come somehow 
and cold reminds him which bones 

he’s broken.  Because every flight delayed 
or canceled is one he won’t be on.  Because 
people should stay where they’re from, 

except his children, who were right to leave.  
Because a flood will take what it can 
and move uphill.  Because just once 

he’d like to see a tornado touch down 
in an empty field and go away
hungry.  Because his wife nearly died 

on an icy road.  Because he can’t prepare 
for disasters he doesn’t understand.
Because wind keeps him awake.  Because 

his boots are by the door, but his slicker 
is in his truck.  Because he can’t change 
a damn thing forecast and uncertainty aches 

like a tired muscle, an unhealed wound.

Copyright © 2013 Carrie Shipers. Originally published in Alaska Quarterly Review, Volume 30, Number 3-4. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2013 Carrie Shipers. Originally published in Alaska Quarterly Review, Volume 30, Number 3-4. Used with permission of the author.

Carrie Shipers

Carrie Shipers

Carrie Shipers is the author of Family Resemblances (University of New Mexico Press, 2016). She teaches at Rhode Island College in Providence.

by this poet

poem
Not because of the hours or the pay, which could be worse.
          Not because of my commute into this office park,
                    or that no one else appreciates that phrase as much as I do.

Not the dim unholy hum of energy-efficient lights,
          recycled air with
poem
I’ve always been afraid to fall—the rough 
embrace of the net, the crowd’s shocked gasp, 
my mother’s disapproval.  She loves me best

when I can fly, when I trust the bar, the leap,
the air and all my training.  From far away, 
every catch, release and tumble looks as effortless 

as breath.  Up close, we grunt
poem
	        After Marvin Bell

The Deadman speaks in sentences 
but rarely paragraphs.  He wears boots 
with silver buckles and walks 
without a sound.  His hat and coat 
exaggerate his height.  Unlike other 
wrestlers, the Deadman doesn’t need 
applause to prove that he exists.  
He mostly moves above the