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Sarah Munroe

Inquisitor by Ian Jones
Inquisitor by Ian Jones



To Whoever Finds This.


FROM THE SKY
                                           (of the same dingy-grey color, such that
                                           it could really have been the sky, were the sky
                                           that flat and flaky)

FELL A MESSAGE
                                           (and wouldn’t you have loved if
                                           it was something that appeared to
                                           solve your problems [say, the winning jackpot numbers], or
                                           a personalized directive from God [“Be this when you grow up”], or
                                           even a comfort from Vonnegut [“Lonesome No More”].
                                           Instead— )

SCRAWLED IN PAINFUL CURSIVE:
                                           (because of the way it was folded and
                                           the current precipitous conditions, fully two-thirds of it
                                           was blotted and smeared illegible by the rain)

                               To whoever fi
                                           I am S
                               I am 9 years ol
                               I like race cars
                               pecan pie. I do
                               my toenails. W
                               be a race car dr
                               wrestler. I wish
                               name it Lightni
                               run really fast.
                               about the world
                               they turn 10 an
                                           If you f

                                           (and the balloon it was sent in probably killed three birds).







After Three Introductions


The plumber came[1]:
Sobering questions about
gigatons.[2]
The timing is right[3]:
Extraterrestrial biosphere and a
shortwave opaque radio-ation.[4]
The signal has changed[5]:
Low sunspots[6] versus
high-priced polkadots[7]
to transport ourselves underwater
with inordinate influence.[8]


[1] A joke—he was a professor.
[2] They (I) predict that as the earth gets warmer there will be fewer and fewer sober people. It makes sense when things are that hot and heavy.
[3] Strike while the iron is hot—your patience is rewarded with a more definite mark.
[4] You are wise: Smallness enough to travel through the radio—radio-port if you will.
[5] Tele-porting is now obsolete, Mr. Wonka.
[6] The result of too many hours in front of a computer.
[7] Only in the brightest of colors.
[8] The irregular rotation of a few planets.






Both of these poems were written as part of—and in part inspired by (particularly “After Three Introductions”)—a 30-poems-in-30-days challenge. Sometimes a lecture makes just as much sense when combined with free association. Sometimes abnormal material inexplicably falls from the sky and the stranger next to you ignores your legitimate concerns about the world’s seemingly imminent end. I never sent a letter in a balloon, but I’m going to.