Sonnet # 3, and: Sonnet # 5, and: Sonnet # 7, and: Flight to Portland Jalen Eutsey (bio) Sonnet # 3 In the dream of the life you did or didnot live, disease spins eddies in the bloodof your kin and bullets do what they willin the dark. Yet the repast still smellsof fried catfish and ham hocks—someone mustmake a run for more hot sauce. In the dreamthat is memoir, you died before a kingtide swept through the city and reshaped coast-line and inland escape without bias,before anyone could solve the brutalmystery of blue—you never gave MaggieNelson the time of day. What about gray—the brain’s subtle decay, another coastleft lifeless, left longing in rank silence. [End Page 42] Sonnet # 5 The story always starts with slaves,a sucked-up swamp, some ill-placed railway,and generations worth of loot overstuffedinto bags & bull-knotted aroundthe ankles of the not yet dead. Later,the capital starts to play its bloodymelody. Song of Solomon, your choicebook in the good word. There was a poetdeep inside you when you said, you got tobring yours to get mine, when you curved orangeand road, and planned a grandchild’s whooping.Like the perfect bend of a switch, the turntakes time to master. In the dream of life,this sonnet is the sole box you’ll sleep in. [End Page 43] Sonnet # 7 For Biker Boy Will How could America ever love you?She misunderstands your fresh pressed white T,the gaudy ticking gold on your left wrist,the swim trunks and fitted, the retro Jsgracing the grimy pink-red outside courts.She don’t know what to do with all your swaggerand braggadocious bluster, the gum-flappingwolf—pronounced woof—tickets. You said,the losing team’s son aint gon eat tonight.You said the game was for five racks.You could lie your ass off.You said, this shit is really really hard.But of course, there is a mother’s protection—my old girl kept me in the house and I thank her for that. [End Page 44] Flight to Portland We all have weak, uncontrollablebladders, brutally boxed inon this Boeing Airbus. The head flight attendantis a whip of a man,tall and southern, his briskwalk only bested bythe tempo of his tongue. His quick wit I suspectis both weapon and shield,from what I wonder? The flitter in his voicewhen he says down,makes an older gentlemanchuckle and reminisceon a past lover. All of us on this full flighthave named him I’m sure—Boy Wonder, Rude Boy,Waylon, maybe. I’m a flight attendant,I’ve had it all, he says.Any other questions? [End Page 45] Jalen Eutsey jalen eutsey is a poet, librarian, and sportswriter from Miami, Florida. He received an mfa in Poetry from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. His work has been published in or is forthcoming from South Florida Poetry Journal, Nashville Review, storySouth, Harpur Palate, and others. Copyright © 2022 Jalen Eutsey