Dirty Secret May 19, 2008

DIRTY SECRET

 

 

On July days, we played noon till night.

Stayed in the woods.

Climbed the hill behind Granny’s house.

Dug up treasures in the briar patch:

Decapitated dolls, deflated basketballs, rusty cans.

 

One day we missed Sam.

Thought he might be caught in the patch –

A bad match for Brer Rabbit –

But the thicket offered only barbed promises.

 

We finally found him behind the barn,

Shorts and shoes abandoned in the grass,

Naked,

Up to his neck in a mud hole.

 

Sweet dirt filled every pore,

Soothed his sore feet,

Cooled his hot skin.

 

Dismayed at his sin displayed,

He leaped from his bath

And ran home, clay caked

In every nook and cranny.

 

Granny never blinked an eye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dirty Secret.” Poetry.  2006 Explorations, MECC, Honorable Mention.

Housecleaning May 14, 2008

HOUSECLEANING

 

 

I set my mop bucket

beneath the downspout

so grit that sits at

bucket’s bottom

returns to earth

around my house.

 

Carried in on work boots and bare feet:

pine needles, walnut leaves, grass,

gravel, mulch, and mud.

Pulled from outside in.

 

I wipe away the grime of life:

disappointment, anger, grief, and fear.

Pushed from inside out.

 

Now the stringy-headed mop

propped on the porch

surveys my mess,

while I polish my joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Housecleaning.”  Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 2 (Fall 2006).

Old Logging Road May 6, 2008

OLD LOGGING ROAD

 

 

Leaving behind lawyers and you,

I go home.

 

An old logging road sidles

around the mountain

behind our desolate house.

I trudge through mud to the top

and eye the rapescape

of amputated limbs,

knotty torsos,

exposed hearts — ringed to count the years.

 

Here scars are deep gashes

in abandoned land.

Poison ivy and wild vines

fill empty spaces.

 

Stumbling, I reach out to steady myself

and clutch a blackberry switch.

Thorns pierce my palm,

draw red beads to the surface.

 

Cursing,

I rub blood across my barren belly

and weep for this wasteland.

 

 

 

 

 

“Old Logging Road.” Bluestone Review (Spring 2008).

Blacksnake May 6, 2008

Blacksnake

 

 

Coiled in my path like an ampersand.

 

My heart beats an ellipsis . . .

Punctuates the sentence of my original sin.

Serpent conjunction links me to my base nature.

 

What was beautiful about you before you came between

Adam & Eve?

 

 

 

“Blacksnake.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 2 (Fall 2005).

“Lonely Hollow” Excerpt May 5, 2008

Sherwood Anderson Short Story Contest, 2nd Place, 2003.

 

The boy followed his mother to the kitchen. She pulled a round tub from the pantry and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor. She poured two kettles of hot water into the tub while Allen ran some cold water into a large pan. He poured it into the tub. Janie handed him a towel, a wash cloth and some soap. She laid clean clothes across a kitchen chair and left the room.

Allen stripped and stepped into the tub. He sat down, Indian-style, with his legs crossed. Water dribbled back into the tub as he washed. Flick-flick: he glanced up and saw a moth hitting the naked light bulb. He could hear the creaking of the ironing board in the living room. He felt ill at ease and finished as fast as he could.

He dried and dressed, and then he emptied the tub in the yard. He turned it over and leaned it against the side of the house to dry. For a while he sat on the porch and listened to the pulsing symphony of crickets. When he went inside, his mother was still ironing. A stiff line of shirts hung on a rack.

“Why are you fixin’ so many clothes?” he asked.

Janie shrugged, but she didn’t look up from her work. “Might as well get’em done now while I’ve got the chance.”

Allen rubbed the back of his neck and stared at his mother. She said nothing more, so he padded down the hall and climbed into bed. He lay a long time without sleeping, listening to his mother work. The furious creak of the ironing board sounded like a monster crawling through the house.

Seven Year Itch May 1, 2008

This poem is a little sad for me now, and a bit ironic. I divorced him the next year.

 

SEVEN YEAR ITCH

 

 

Husband, I’ve worn you for so long

you’re a little ragged around the edges,

but soft and comfortable as a T-shirt.

So Carolina’s a surprise.

 

You walk on the shore while I sleep.

Steeped in salty mist, skin cold,

you hold me when you return, but

I don’t know this grey-eyed selchie

who’s slipped between my sheets.

Sleek, hair slicked against your skull,

you seduce me, reduce me to blood and muscle.

You take my affection in a new direction.

 

I think I understand now why

seven represents perfection.

 

“Seven Year Itch.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 2 (Fall 2006).

Appalachia, Man: Can you dig it? May 1, 2008

APPALACHIA, MAN: CAN YOU DIG IT?

 

 

Turn a furrow and find

arrowheads, iridescent beetles,

pop bottles, decapitated dolls,

carbide lamps.

 

Dig deeper.

 

Beneath Wal-Mart’s parking lot

find the wisp of a tobacco field.

At the DQ, catch the milky ghost

of a farmer’s wife.

 

Look beyond Cracker Barrel,

the car dealership,

the call center,

the prison.

 

Find hard-faced boys

with anthracite eyes,

who were too wise too soon,

schooled in hell’s shafts,

seams and slack.

 

Dig deeper.

 

Don’t discard the shards.

 

Can you dig it?

 

 

“Appalachia Man: Can You Dig It?” A! Magazine for the Arts, vol. 15, no. 4. (April 2008).

 

http://artsmagazine.info/