November 2006 Archives

Blue Flames & Anger

He walked into the living room
Like he owned it, which
He did back then, along with
Her and their son, James,
Named after him; a gift
From his wife, on a day
In November. 1997. A burner now flared in the kitchen--
One of those medium
Blue flames gas companies
Like to show when flaunting
How dependable they can be.
He had been dependable,
Draping a chocolate cloth coat
Over her shoulders and taking her
Out for chili and beer. Somewhere
In the evening, the beer
Always went to his head,
And he’d hit her just
Enough to draw certain
Handfuls of tears, leaving her
Skin pink in the morning air.
He was always sorry. Always.
If she’d walk through the door
This minute, he’d want her
To know how sorry and
That the coat still looked
Like mink on his beautiful girl.

What Happens When You Leave

It had been her
Midwestern recklessness
As a girl, that sent
The mysterious shivers
Up her spine tonight.
Once, in Cincinnati,
Overcoming sizeable odds,
She jumped into a truck
And simply pointed north,
Which brought her,
Falling drunk, to this
Dakota bar and grill,
Where two Dakota men
Played pinball, waiting,
Just waiting, for someone
Like her to come
Into their lives. She
Smiled her Cincinnati
Smile, which brought them
To their knees, bells ringing
In the hard Fargo night.
What followed smelled
Of a stale, drug store perfume
And day-old Pabst, pooled
Next to the bed, and two
Dwindling sighs at sunrise,
Wondering what happened,
And if the third sigh
Made it home okay.

These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View

Finding His Way

for T. Burch

Following his footprints afterwards
they saw the long trail of a stain
where he began upstairs. And looking back
they almost smiled thinking how
he must have sat there holding the gun just so.
And still it went off leaving him only blind
but still breathing. And he must have known then
how he had not done what he needed to do.
His mind a mess making its way back down
those steps where the extra shells were kept.
Knowing this
was just another mistake he had made.

The Stone Age

There are Stone Age people living now,
In the Space Age....
     
       Survivors of the Stone Age—R. Marcus

They don’t know what they’re missing
raincoats, spiral notebooks, hockey
on Saturday afternoons. Living deep

in the woods, picking up whatever falls.
Shy as children, distrustful of strangers.
Without the glint of choice they marry young,

carrying whatever’s needed, snaring
whatever comes. Old at thirty. No seeds
of possibility bloating pockets, things to bring

in from the rain. Dividing the least stem
of existence with a dull edge, waking, eating,
sleeping, leaning close for warmth.

These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View