Do I know
the difference
between a kumquat
and a quince?
I thought they
were the same
or near cousins,
but one is orange-like
the other pear-like.
I have a distant
memory of kumquats:
a strange aroma,
rot in the yard.
Irregular orange eggs,
why is it
that I never
gave you a try?
– Jessica Swafford
In the summer
my mother stops
eating most things
somehow survives on
fruit flavored ice cream
or sherbet from cones
so as to not
dirty a bowl
Raspberry sherbet
is her favorite
but peach ice cream
with real fruit chunks
will do
She can’t help it.
The heat consumes her.
She’s only trying
to fight back.
– Jessica Swafford
you spoke Provision
never hitting snooze, not once
perfect attendance
every year, dialect
thick with love and southern drawl
Intermission. The short, sharp hiss of a cigarette landing in a beer cup. Wind sounds through the open fretwork of a microwave tower, a ghost ship’s rigging. There’s a coil of wire hanging from one spar like a spit curl or an afterthought. Is that why I’m thinking of you? It’s not as if we were ever here together, or someone in the crowd looks like you did thirty years ago. Wisps of cloud pass the full moon. The chords they sound mimic those of the tower as they drag along the face.
Church Basement
It’s where I learned to back-slice
a ping pong ball,
the orange paddle
skimming the ball’s surface
careening it
in a devilish arcing spin,
a trick I learned from my uncle
fresh-faced in his uniform
just returned from Germany,
now speaking in an accent
foreign to our ears.
It’s where, alone with my boyfriend,
pressng tight against me
had wet the front of his pants,
going to the kitchen to wipe off,
my young ears uncomprehending
his Baptist apology.
We played spin the bottle
in a church classroom
our teacher there watching.
From the wooden case
next to the Coke machine,
we took an empty bottle,
spun it on the grey tile floor.
When it stopped,
pointing to a cute boy,
we thought it daring to kiss long
on the lips with everyone watching.
In another classroom
alone in the silence, I knelt
kissing the wooden seat
of each chair
so I’d be sure to kiss
the one on which my boyfriend sat.
Sometimes men would hide
in the steeple with guns
shooting pigeons
who littered the steps
with liquid white.
after bottles and pots
and paddles and jars
and brushes and guns
and tubes, glue has finally
found the form it was always
meant to take:
stick
Yesterday, you added bacon and bagels to the shopping list.
That evening, you forewarned me,
“I’ll be making breakfast tomorrow.”
Typically, we don’t see you before lunch.
This morning, we’re having coffee on the porch
when you appear: “Can you show me how to use the stove?”
Later, you demonstrate your technique, “Is this how you crack an egg?”
I am unable to articulate the difference between a pot and a frying pan.
In no time you deliver two egg and bacon sandwiches
with blueberries and raspberries on the side, handing the plates to us
with a flourish. Delicious! You join us for breakfast,
leave to clean up the kitchen, ask what to do with the grease.
I hover between telling you what to do and letting you figure things out,
understanding that before long you won’t be asking me many more questions.
a fatal coincidence
that death should pay for life
– –
a twig pushes up
underneath paws imprinting
trails upon the ground,
the housndstooth cobblestone
encircles the homestead where
ants march two-step
over picnic tables and
wrought iron rope
[[ they took, in their sepia tones
motions to bind , in chains, the triune
back together,
using time, sun and
a little luck
to no avail: the split
could only be bridged,
not mended ]]
to separate islands of bark
and sticky sap
in search of food for
their communal future
while blades rustle in tempo
with the breath of the unknowable
in fields and kempt lawns
shorn sharp enough to
tickle the barefoot feet
of the claimants of the land
running in joyous fright–on the
occasion of a wedding–from
the slobbering jowls of raucous canines…
– –
alerted to the antannae
of a foreign passenger
on my person
I am reminded that likewise I am
a traveler with no innate knowledge
of my port or my terminal,
only sure of the dirt underneath
each step.
Poem 19, June 19 to be read down–not across after line break
Chester Johnson, Poem Eleven
Thanks for the fruit basket. the Twin Towers
I appreciate the off brought down
of dinner. by a new enemy.
It’s Father’s Day. Two planes,
I’m waiting for my daughter direct hits
to come from Tennessee. exploding.
I’ll eat a banana I watched
before she comes, smoke–
and to answer your question: saw
Was I ever afraid? people
I was trained abandon
not to have feelings. ship,
Yes, just like a doctor f
as an intern learns a
to deal with death. l
Kamikazes l
were a staring i
of death in the face. n
I didn’t think g
I’d feel that tight ahead
gut-wrenching of that
determination terrible swift
to live again sword. I’ll eat
until I watched that banana now.
