C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Spring Semester, AD 2012

By: Eric Bodlak


In January, we watched Flight

2379 spirit him up into the choppy

grey, until even the bright-white

of the tailborne LEDs had been

extinguished. Returning home, we


linked limp fingers and listened

to the thump-thump of the roadway

seams, neither one of us quite

possessing the degree of cleverness

required for conversation, but finally,


at the house, making our way inside,

I got you laughing and laughing

and laughing, and our breath

soared above us like stratospheric

plumes announcing again


the apocalypse over twentieth-century

Japan. Afterward, in the kitchen, you

filled our glasses with anniversary

wine and we ventured out onto

the balcony, where we unboxed

your decades-old telescope, nuzzled

noses, and locked our bundled arms

around one another, but when

I pressed my face against

the eyepiece, I couldn’t see a thing.




Eric Bodlak is a research engineer who lives and works in Huntsville, Alabama.


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