Posts for June 10, 2022 (page 9)

in the quickening woods of Jackson County,
I pressed my big body into the soil, a book
in hand as my camouflaged papaw scoped
his eye for deer. I learned to remain still,
quiet, and put my book away on occasion 
to notice his noticing–the subtleties between 
a fir branch’s tense sway and then its jostle,
the sound of a quiet thing on sure feet walking.
His eye locked just above the rifle. I didn’t keen
to the heft of the gun in my hands, one eye closed
and the other peering. I stayed to books
and noticing things, like how he brought salt
for the deer and noticed their runs–it seemed
he’d followed them steady for many, many years.

The smell of old-fashioned
rose bushes
always does me in—
thick, complicated,
a tapestry for your nose.
They overflow any vase
in their bounteous imperfection,
nothing like the hothouse buds
that look perfect
smell like nothing
but an imitation
of the real thing.  

I cried last year
when we had to trim  
the bushes back
fearing the loss
would be permanent,
but they returned
stronger than ever,
as my husband
assured me they would.
This is love, I tell him,
when I breathe in
this year’s cutting.
Yes, he says,
as he sucks on
his thorn-bloodied finger.

In cooler months

It didn’t seem wrong; we weren’t rebellious.
I really can’t say just what propelled us
To do the crazy stuff
We did at night.  

We’d get in a car and drive around
Sometimes in the country, other times in town
And eventually we’d
Park the car just right.  

It’d be facing forward, but the action was backward
At some enemy we had manufactured
Who had somehow slighted
One of us before.  

My good friend Tilt would load a rocket
In a tube on the car, and with wires he’d cock it,
And we’d target us a
Car or a front door.  

Then one of us would hold the button,
And we’d count down quiet then all of a sudden,
It was time to push it down
And yell out “fire.”  

Now it wasn’t a bomb or a fiery explosion,
But those rockets sure ’nuff caused a commotion,
And we’d peel away
Before things went haywire.  

I can’t say I’m proud of the things we did.
I can’t justify it as “we were kids,”
’Cause I know we scared those folks
Back in the past.  

So it’s possible when I go to heaven
That the Lord above will count down from seven,
And an angel will shoot a rocket
Straight up my ass.

I always wanted to be a blonde
Jamie says adjusting her wig  

Long gone the raven    
Locks she treasured  

Patches drifting to porcelain sinks
Dribbled to clothes and comb  

Body now weak as a winter sun
Scabs and scars highlight her whiteness  

Each visit she endures the drugs
And the platitudes   Stay strong   Keep the faith  

The doctors unwilling to say
What it really is       a last chance  

Have your passport on you?
Her smile lights up the dark day  

I nod at the pretended trip plans
Not trusting my voice  

We have covered the globe
From the front seat of my car  

I’d love one of those fruit drinks
With the tiny umbrella she sighs  

I reach over and lightly squeeze her hand
Let’s go tomorrow I say    

               breezes rustling reeds
         echo sounds of night’s rainfall
               frogs croak in response

I surfaced
with a ballad on my mind:
an elderly couple at the market,
“We cannot afford this apple, sweetheart” –
and they walk on with dignity.

Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova

I’ve always heard that screaming “fire” is the best way to call for help.
I grew up afraid. I slept with a backpack on.
I had a string tied to my bed frame, ready to repel down the brick of my house at the first sign of gray dancing smoke.

My great-grandfather was drunk on his couch when his water heater exploded. The burst shattered all the windows in the house.
Third degree burns covered his arms.
The tattoo of his first love’s name sloughed from his skin.
Next door my mother and her mother slept.

I remember once, my mother frantically running from room to room. 
Her nose was tipped upwards like a scent hound.
“Something is burning,” she said.
“Don’t you smell it?”

The sunsets on another mass shooting.
The rain washed the blood away.
No water can erase the pain.

Now we lay down photos, candles, and flowers.
Your memories they help us keep.
We gather together.
Hand in hand,
On bended knees across the land.

There’s a chill in the air,
The sun disappears.
Darkness falls silent,
Flowing like tar covering the light.

We now lay down too sad to sleep.
Our slumber, a waterbed of tears.

The sun rises early today.
It brings the dawn of possibilities.

It brings a brand new day.

The grass, the trees, and the flowers glisten.
The sun’s golden rays shine down on them,

Drying their tears,
The mourning dew that covers them.

I want to be William Stafford
and write a poem on my last day,
something left on the screen,
something poignant they’ll pick apart
looking for premonitions that I knew
death was downstairs with a foot on the riser. 

I’m afraid in reality it’ll be nothing more
than a grocery list (raspberries,
if they look firm), or to-do’s (tuck-point
the chimney) that will remain awhile longer undone.

But if it were a poem,
then my body could ride off in rhythm, 
my soul peeking through the rhyme.

Then you might be willing to carry my ashes
all night through the blue canyon
to that place where the stones always shine.