Cindy was born in Cleveland, Ohio and grew up swimming in the shadows of the hyperboloid cooling towers on the shores of Lake Erie. After completing high school, she studied literature at the University of Toledo, earning a bachelor’s degree English. At 23, she moved to Mississippi to enroll in the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi, where she earned a master’s degree in creative writing. Upon graduation, she spent a year abroad in London, England, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where she taught at Georgia Military College. After a teaching at Valdosta State University, she entered the Ph.D. program in creative writing at Florida State University. After graduating, she held teaching positions at Auburn University, Berry College, and the University of Tampa, where she was poetry editor for The Tampa Review. She served as an Assistant Professor of English at the University of North Texas in Dallas until 2016, when she moved to Hurricane, Utah, and then to St. George, where she is currently an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Dixie State University and faculty advisor of The Southern Quill, DSU’s literary arts journal. She also enjoys serving as the faculty advisor of DSU’s creative writing club and as an advocate for creative writing in her community.
She has been awarded a Tennessee Williams Scholarship to attend the Sewanee Writers' Workshop. Her poems were chosen for the Betty Gabehart Prize by the University of Kentucky. She has also received the Agha Shahid Ali Scholarship in Poetry from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities Summer Institute and the Furious Flower Poetry Center at James Madison University and scholarships from the Frost Place, The New York State Summer Writers Institute, The Colgate Writers Conference, and the Wesleyan Writers Conference among others.
Cindy King’s poetry has appeared in African American Review, Ambit, The American Literary Review, The Antioch Review, Ascent, Barrow Street, Bat City Review, Bellingham Review, Blackbird, The Briarcliff Review, Callaloo: A Journal of African Diaspora Arts and Letters, Crab Orchard Review, Cimarron Review, Cincinnati Review, Clackamas Literary Review, The Collagist, The Comstock Review, Cortland Review, descant, Folio, Gettysburg Review, Hiram Poetry Review, jubilat, Little Patuxent Review, The Los Angeles Review, Louisville Review, The MacGuffin, The Madison Review, The McNeese Review, Nashville Review, New American Writing, New Madrid Journal of Contemporary Literature, The New Southern Fugitives, North American Review, Obsidian: Literature & Arts of the African Diaspora, The Pinch, PLUME, Prairie Schooner, Potomac Review, Quarter After Eight, Rattle, RHINO Poetry, River Styx, Roanoke Review, Ruminate Magazine, Slipstream, Smartish Pace, The South Carolina Review, Sou’wester, The Sun, St. Petersburg Review, Tar River Poetry, TriQuarterly, Western Humanities Review, Yemassee, and elsewhere.
Works
The Rivers Runneth Black with Mascara
The Rivers Runneth Black with Mascara
The widows soar-eth with parasols of flies,
with pressed-powder desert faces, the widows runneth over.
With pillbox hats and fascinators,
the widows runneth,
widows behind blind glasses and tinted windows,
broken widows runneth, widows streaked with rain.
The widows walk-eth the widow’s walk in button boots,
widows wear-eth corsets to train their sighs.
In bustles and petticoats, widows rustle-eth,
shower-eth earth with the feathers of ravens.
They bring-eth their lips together, hide-eth their lipstick teeth.
Merry widows will work-eth to please you.
With belladonna, with nightshade, widows
Coif-eth their hair with the precision of angels.
The widows watch-eth pornography
and are-eth not ashamed.
They do-eth the Hustle, a spinoff
of a spinoff that is twice as good as the original.
Ever certain of the finale,
widows will always see-eth things through.
She’s a killer, killer queen, gunpowder, gelatin…
they sing-eth, and you may block your ears
but still, you can hear the widows. Widows
surround-eth you, pass-eth you between them
like a pink tetherball. They drop-eth you in a basket,
push-eth you through reeds
down rivers that runneth black with mascara.
The Cincinnati Review, vol. 14, no. 2, Winter 2018
Survivor’s Guide to Grief, Loss, Bereavement, Life-Imploding Tragedies, and Various Other Kinds of Human Suffering (Abridged)
Survivor’s Guide to Grief, Loss, Bereavement, Life-Imploding Tragedies, and Various Other Kinds of Human Suffering (Abridged)
Eliminate action verbs
Say deceased not dead
Don’t think that you’ll ever remodel the kitchen
Even with the modifications to your diet,
the polar icecaps will melt,
the average surface temperature of the Earth will continue to rise,
and still, that dress will never make you look like a movie star
As the house burns, the stove confesses
its love for the refrigerator
(who would have known?)
For all of those years they stood side by side
To save on tissues,
do your crying in the shower
If your clothes are dirty,
throw them out. Spit
if it’s hard to swallow
If it’s ugly, close your eyes
The human brain is not symmetrical
That’s not a rose, it’s an axe
That’s not music, but how were you to know.
That’s no cemetery, it’s landfill.
Your daughter may be my spouse’s killer
Your diagnosis may be my tax return
When God falls asleep, it’s difficult
for him to hear my prayers
Sometime even the wind is confused
A few of us can pretend we’re not looking,
or look as if we are not pretending
At some point comes the wisdom
You came for the insight
And stayed for the refreshments
the drumroll
the curtain call
It’s coming, believe me
Let me tell you, it’s coming
The Comstock Review (forthcoming)
After the Audition
After the Audition
The girls swell from the theater, two idle streams
The length of seven limousines, and shining, too, like limos.
They look at each other at the distance of stars
From under their wet black mascara. And because
Their faces are very bright it is hard to shoot them
And harder still to capture what commences between them on film.
A man hovers over the girls. The girls carry a man,
Holding each of his thick limbs, his back, and just below
His wide waist, and in this way, very slowly
They carry the man through the alley,
As if he is a statue of a saint paraded down the street
or a cross to a crucifixion,
His necktie swinging down, his thin hair grazing
The girls’ shoulders. I keep thinking the man
Might be a prop held up by wires or two phantom hands,
But the man is a man, his body as squat as a postbox.
His suit divided into three pieces, his skin tan, the way the ego
Is bronzed by imagination, the teeth over-bright,
The girls shining, the wingless man floating quietly
Over the crowd. There is something living in it,
Or it is alive. Something beyond the register
Of disappointment. I touch my knees to my elbows, and there
I sit for the amount of daylight it takes two streams
Of girls to carry a man through a narrow alley,
Past sleeping roses, past the small swans,
Past prophets and doomsday signs. And when
I turn my lens on the girls, they are gone.
But the alley reeks of broken hearts, and across
The sidewalk a puddle grows for which there is no origin,
A widening pool covering the street, and the tears
Are like the tears after a drought, or a flood,
Unholy still, but full of twinkling.
Yemassee, vol. 23, issue 1, 2016
Civil Aviation Code
Civil Aviation Code
They may have been speaking Zulu, for all we knew, their Dixie-
thick drawls and Yankee-doodled dialects, dragging the battered
luggage of language from concourse to curbside. They'd bounce
it to the baggage crews who'd pass it through unchecked, undetected
by the X-ray machines. We wet our words with whiskey while brewing
at the bar, slurring to any server who'd listen, head cocked to one side,
like the Victor dog, baffled by the crackle of his master's voice, the overgrown
speech of an electric Easter lily.
Taxiing down the tarmac, the lingual lint rolls from our tongues'
velvet uniform. Sitting cheek to cheek in the shoebox of our airline
seats, we carry on clipped conversation, air traffic controlled and snipped
like verbal thorns from the rose of the mouth. The captain
conducts his slow-spoken tango, soaring high above the Sierra Nevadas,
all Romeo dreamy in the cumulus clouds. Cool as Quebec,
his mama-papa-thank-you-speech could earn him an Oscar. A November
politician at the cockpit mic, his tooth-white words to the passengers
ring clean as lima beans throughout the cabin. With kilo on kilo of spoken
cocaine, we forget our Juliet threats for a while.
We were bound to be snared in those linguistic lassos, semantic slipknots,
the Indian rope tricks of talk, cobra dancing from their lips' loose weave.
Their tales of turbulence tall as luxury hotels, empty as air pockets, mere pacification,
pitted and pocked as the golf balls they'd putt down the aisles of vacant planes.
They'd foxtrot around the truth as they would with your wife or daughter, close,
but careful not to step on any toes. Hoping we'd be doped by the echolalia
of jet engines, delta waves that rock us into the muddy waters of sleep,
where the creek learns to speak from the river.
But when the landing gear begins to drop, the mounting pressure pops
in our ears, a cerebral charley horse of sound, the wheel squealing,
touching down, triggering the bravos and backslaps, the spoken reruns of the runway.
We strain in our seatbelts, refraining from tray table manners, ignoring
the illuminated signs. In our relentless surge toward the terminal, we endlessly
miss the connections, fail in finding the twenty-seventh letter to fit an impossible
alphabet.
The North American Review, Jan. – Feb. 2007
Bibliography
- Zoonotic, Tinderbox Editions, April 2020.
- Easy Street, Dancing Girl Press, March 2020.