Bravest Finch

Today, the weather has turned.
Rain, mud, smog have all fled, leaving
me on my roof with the scent of black coffee. 

Finches and magpies are excited as well.
They jumped from their nest, learned
to fly in oppressive humidity. Zephyrs now comes,
carries them high to antenna and exhaust ports. 

If I jumped, not even Tempest
could lift me higher. The bravest finch
would have to cross the Pacific to shed tears
in the same language as my mother. Then,
bring vultures back to my twisted corpse.

My Great Aunt Crocheted Me a Frog

Birds fly strangely until you realize
they are bats, skimming the water,
hunting mosquitoes between the hanging vines. 

Most families in the south have a quilt.
One their great grandmother made, a pattern
of tattered stories held together by thread. 

Tides stumble into the coast
on their own schedule, but ask fishermen
not the waves when to cast your line. 

Instruments all have their own ancestors
and bloodlines as diverse as our own,
but Segovia hated guitars with seven strings. 

What freedom we have come to have!
We trade knowledge without a second thought,
as long as mice aren't chewing on the wires.

Mother taught me how to sew

            after she was tired of fixing
rips in my knees and washing out
blood stains. Or maybe she knew 

I'd rather make clothes and dolls.
Stitch the sails on the boat
I would use to leave this place.
That I would find my home 

on the ocean. My companion
a walrus sewn together from seaweed,
with salt crystals for eyes. Lying
on the deck, staring at the Milky Way,
we understand what doesn't come true. 

Author’s Biography

Eric Christopher Uphoff is a wanderer who has called Texas, Japan, and Taiwan home. He holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University and a BA in music from the University of North Texas. After more than a decade abroad, he now finds himself an ESL instructor at the University of Texas at Austin. His poetry can also be found in MockingHeart Review, Book of Matches and elsewhere.