Author: Sara Reynolds Cox

Sara Reynolds Cox is a recent graduate of Cumberland University and has spent the majority of her life in Middle Tennessee. She has previously been published in Novus-- both in 2019 and 2020. Before transferring to Cumberland in 2018, Sara was awarded the John MacDougall Literary Award through Volunteer State Community College for one of her poems. When she’s not in class, you can find her working in the Writing Center, reading anything by Kurt Vonnegut, or swimming laps.

My Brother, David

Do you remember

bleach-blond David?

Hair becoming green from the potent chlorine?

Boyhood David


Athletic-swimmer David?

Anchor of the dream team relay

Baseball-jersey-all-year-long David?

Touchdown, homerun, all-star David.


Still get glimpses of reckless David

unfazed-by-limits David

tackled-a-kid-in-third-grade-for-calling-our-mama-ugly David,

bought-a-dog-without-anyone’s-permission David.


“Hey, dad”

called three-year-old David

no-fears David

already travelling down the steep hill

on my scooter, David.

No helmet, no knee pads

Daredevil David.


You’ll need patience for mouthy David.

Anti-authority David.

Walked out of Spanish class because she wouldn’t let him piss –

ISS-once-a-year David.

Unplugged the teacher’s minifridge –

poke-the-bear David.


Sweating rivers, dusk to dawn

‘cause he’s hard working, that David.

Skoal cans in the truck bed

trying-to-kick-the-habit David


Daring David

Speak-up-for-the-weak David

Named for our granddaddy, David.

Not too cool to teach Bible school

Friend-to-the-friendless David.

God-fearing David

My brother, David

Quarantine/SSRI Dreams Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8

1.

I dreamed that I wrote

                                a poem

for someone inappropriate

                                who needed

                one.

I dreamed that they later

                                shared it

with the world and it felt ok

                                with everyone

                but me.


2.

Sometimes a sprawling

resort on a cliff where


I do not belong and live

in shadows, sprints, and


confidence.


4.

There is another country

I travel to in some dreams.


There is an airport in my

shadowland I have spent


many days running late to,

many days on a train to.


I wonder if I am on my way

to someone else’s shadow


and all of our ports and all

of our trains look the same


and we will never grant each

other entry, asylum, bondage.


5.

I will swim up

and down the floors


of the house I

grew up and learned


everything important in.


I find your corpse

floating in the attic


I don’t remember

you ever visiting.


6.

Like a cathedral cut from stone

my favorite exhibit in a museum

of the other country I visit in my

dreams appears before me with

heights and depths I can never

hope to absorb or comprehend.


8.

I move through the levels, mansions, and

rooms like Kowloonon


on the run in my other country with dank

flower sweating in hand.


If I could smell it would be Genoa docks

and wine breath.


If I weren’t saving the terpenes these legs

would never move.

FUTURE INSTRUCTION MANUAL: On Work

It will be the opposite of toil // the once-towed line that is now yours to draw // to define what has value // what will halve you // much like day from night // labor from leisure // from punch clocks to punch lines from those working the line // lunch lines in the corporate café // clock watching so as not to waste time on the timeline // the time sheets that need to be complete // accounting for hours // by the quarter // like a hoarder of time and profit // yet still not fit for the next rung //the one your brother said you should be gunning for // running for as if you were up for the vote // on the ballot // not some speculative write-in charlatan // work will not be this // it will not be just this toil of hands // head work intended to get you ahead // it will be eye work // mouth work // your words at work // your whole self // poured into something more than self-serving // a conviction of how time, more precious than profit, is spent // work is not the obligation you thought it was // told it was // sold it was // it is a decision // a vote // the only one you’ve got // the most consequential one you will cast.

The Almost Symphony

I. The Altar of Almost

We’ve long since forfeited lifting up half-hearted prayers to the altar of almost, that pseudo-shrine of near achievement where an out-of-reach challis is prominently perched. This, despite what we’ve been told about petition and sincere supplication. Thoughts of unburdening your almosts land in an empty confessional where a screen and wood-embroidered separation admonishes every admission, where silence is a heavier affliction than the sin of almost.

II. Almost Remains Scoreless

There is no formal scorecard for tabulating the almosts. Every almost exists in the ether, uncounted, an unfashionable scratch, a prelude to cancel culture. Nobody shares the raw data of almost in fear of offending the self-professed, the anointed achievers, those who get the most, display it with upmost confidence, cast heavy shadows atop the great whisperers of almost who can’t help but keep count.

III. Almosting

Between already and not yet, in liminal space they lurch in search of identity. Accepting almost is a setback deeper than not yet, a feeling more like never. They are unsure of its composition, unable to explain what it means, though they know it when they see it.

IV. Almost

It has no crescendo, there is no coda. It doesn’t know how to bow. There are no strings attached. It is a perpetual skip in the record, not realizing that this is the record.

Mad Again

Rather than Mars, she traveled

to Oregon, spent days writing

before rivers turned cobalt blue

or the sky seeped a fine, red mist.

In quietness, she sees herself,

a skylight sounding rhythms

of lightly falling rain, an inked

body mistaking death for depth.

Abandoned Anonymous

In a circle, they don’t smoke,

drink coffee, or speak of bravery.


All he left was debt

When I was born, she stopped looking back

He gave the smoke

She told me Wonder Woman was Santa Claus

I remember the dust, the wings

She was made of homemade eggnog and cheap whiskey

His anger was a butter knife

When she wasn’t right, I was wrong

I imagine him seated at a shopping mall

Her smile went with her

We were kept hungry like feral cats

I was born laughing, until I was slapped

In failure, he succeeded


Welcoming pain,

they wait, they listen.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN