Going South in Summer, 1955
I remember fat clouds coaxed me here.
I stood in this tree bobbling with possum,
watched leaves fall in autumn cramp.
In the midst of lean birds,
I believed this was where I belonged,
away from a home of wide cracks and spoiled paint.
Here I began stories I would finish later
in a final art of self-concealment.
She began appearing that May.
She came barefoot, neverminding
the dirt in the crease of an undertucked foot.
She was older, and knew I dreamed
of a sleek moment of invited seduction.
But we never spoke unless I read to her.
Then she was out to the fish pond,
jumping a jig, loose and tan in a shift,
nearly naked in my mind,
with the scent of a terrible secret.
That summer
my stories turned into poems of love,
and a year later stopped completely
when she kissed me, fried fish on her breath.
Gulf Coast, Texas, 1968
We dance where curtains ride high,
like skirts over busy bone.
Through open doors, night shotguns through our hair.
The cold sand slopes down to the Gulf
where boats loll in sleepless water,
and desire forms a suction
that secures us against separation.
The threat of morning wakes us early.
We lie waiting for the sun to part the curtains,
to part the day from night,
to part us into two separate lives.
We seem forever sailing,
separate cylindrical vessels,
only to slide together,
slick in some other darkened port.
We endlessly seek safe harbor
from the days we cannot stand
and the nights that always end.
Hill Country, Texas, 1989
Tender air enters from the east.
Early morning voices
wrestle with the rooster’s call.
The scent in the summer wind
reminds me of Austin,
days haunted by hot, speechless dawns,
nights splattered with starlight.
I’m tempted to turn the clock to the wall,
reach for my lover, call out the beast
that swallows myths.
But today I understand little,
and leave my room to search out
a single stalk of familiar flesh.
Along the path,
streaks of heat slouch into the woods.
At the crest of the hill,
enough wind curls through the trees
to float a thousand dreams.
A hawk sears the sky,
its shadow lost in the blur of flight.
Its cry promises only the next journey.
I leave my old voice at the top of the view,
trade tongue for talons,
feel the breeze of rising wings.
The only baggage I carry
is a feather in my hand.
County Road, Alabama, 1998
70 degrees and climbing.
The sun cruises slowly through blue air.
Voices curl over fences
around new houses.
I stop to eavesdrop
as children and dogs
splash in neighborhood pools.
Snow comes to mind now.
You cannot eavesdrop on snow,
its fall is too tender, too quiet,
yet quick to cover the indiscretions
of uneven ground.
One snowflake joined by a million
becomes a sinister force,
until every lawn,
every forgotten toy is held hostage,
frozen in feet of snow,
like lives piled under
layers of memories
until we can only imagine
what lies underneath.
We must wait for spring
to find what we lost.
Now eighty and climbing.
A trickle of sweat begins at my hairline.
Voices leap over fences,
like plain, ordinary hearts
chasing heat. It is spring,
yet a blizzard continues inside me.
But it’s a time to thaw,
a time to choose.
So when I phone you tonight,
you will not hear
the snow in my voice.
Next Stop, Pearl, 2004
Walk into the water.
Let socks drown.
Wonder why shoes were saved.
When the ocean reaches chest high,
your feet lift, fumble their grasp of the bottom.
The water juggles legs, plugs ears,
and you notice the silence, like hush before hymns
in a church heavy with sinners.
Then you hear the ocean boasting
of limitless comfort,
reason enough to go down to sailors
asleep in the harbor.
Down to where waters once claimed victory,
on that day of broken ships,
that day all our fathers died.
A falling starfish refuses your hand,
spreads a coolness like juice spilled over linoleum.
Quiet years live alone here, unhooked from the desire to hurry.
The sun never enters, nor the night.
The water bleeds warmth like memories from high school,
friendships lost and never found again.
But here, everyone knows you.
There’s a feeling of having survived,
of having unearthed a final dream
of reaching home
just before
you begin to drown.
Contributors
Current Issue - Winter 2003 Issue
Home