My seven-sonnet crown started as a much shorter poem with a much longer name, “I Love the Smell of Rain after a White Republican Enclave.” Consisting of two sonnets, the original seemed more like a nut graph, a phylogeny that might be recapitulated, if you will. The longer poem picks up on the psychological immersion of the little girl, Lexanne, into television as she bounces monomaniacally on the red rubber ball, thus insulating herself from family dysfunction and suburban drab while exiting through a found escape hatch. TV, providing a window onto American culture and history, adds context to her transit from malaise. Television as lexicon. This journey ends, perhaps not surprisingly, with the reassurance that Lucy and Desi will return next week. Certainly, the circular form of the sonnet crown is unavoidable on this trip.
Rick Mullin’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including American Arts Quarterly, The Raintown Review and Unsplendid. He is the author of the collection Coelacanth (Dos Madres Press, 2013), the epic poem Soutine (Dos Madre Press, 2012), and the book-length poem Huncke (Seven Towers, 2010).
Rabbit Ears 