Never Point a Loaded Politician at any Human Being

 

Never Point a Loaded Politician at any Human Being

My first job, no trifle,
I taught kids to shoot a rifle.
Gun safety at summer camp, on the range,
no one thought it strange to show 8-year-olds
to cock the bolt, squint and squeeze.
Blow holes in the paper target, please.

That same summer
I had a girlfriend, cute as molasses.
We met every night, hid our asses
in the boathouse under canoes.
Her expertise was teaching peace.

Next summer, age 18
I told the Draft Board I was pacifist
but the job history, me a crack shot.
They said not.

Kissinger lied.
Nixon lied.
Young men died.

Age 25, on impulse at a garage sale
a .22 bolt-action rifle I bought,
same model I once taught
and it came with bullets in a box
plus thirteen pairs of jogging socks.

Wore the socks, raised three kids
strong as molasses to be mindful,
to be kindful while Reagan lied, then Dubya,
Iraq oh my God and Dick Cheney
who never heard my safety rules
filled his hunting buddy with buckshot
and lied. And speaking of liars—
look now. Wow.

Grandkids come merry as molasses,
mindful and kindful and I tell you
when I die, bury me in jogging socks
with ammo, the whole box
plus that rifle, never shot.
First job is now my final task.
Teach those ghouls gun safety:
be mindful, be kindful. Don’t lie.
The best weapon is never fired.
The best war is never fought.

…..

First published in Poets Reading the News. Thank you editor Sonia Greenfield.
Photo is from an NRA web site.

Note: Yes, I still have that rifle. It makes people uncomfortable to know that. So I wrote this uncomfortable mess of a poem. Just sayin’…

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Ceasefire

 

Ceasefire

At Dog's Bluff
children swoop on the rope swing,
drop to muddy water.
Some daredevils climb the rocks
thirty feet above the swimming hole
and launch, disappear in the brown,
pop up gasping.

One girl stands frozen at the limestone edge,
a statue of fear while people shout
"Jump! Jump!”
One shirtless man watches silent and scowling.
It’s his daughter up there.
Scars scattered like stars over his back.
I can’t help myself, ask “Shrapnel?”
He fixes me with a glare. “Uh-huh.”

Just then she jumps.
Murky water. Five seconds. Ten.
She pops up. Dad exhales,
breathes again. Away from him, free,
hair trailing black and wild,
she swims toward boys.
“Which war?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”

…..

First published in Slipstream — thank you editor Dan Sicoli.
Photo is at Dog’s Bluff on the Big Piney River in Missouri. The girl midair is my daughter.

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To be poor on rich land

 

To be poor on rich land

Evicted, this cold and final night
I tuck two children under blankets singing
    Knick knack paddy-whack,
    give the dog a bone.
Nonsense is sense to them.
They’ve known no other home.

We sit by the window watching the moon
drift among branches of Bishop pine.
Tomorrow we’ll haul away beds, bears, books.
Behind we’ll leave mildewy walls
crayon-colored with unicorns and rainbows.

Yesterday the bulldozer trundled down
from a flatbed trailer, now waits in the dark
to growl its motor, to flatten
this tiny cottage of scribbled rooms.
Spare the pine? We have no say.

A property priced in cash, not love.
Nests of mice in a field.
Comes the plow.

…..

First published in Slant. Thank you editor Michael Blanchard.
Photo by me.

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The Car Cure

 

The Car Cure

Blended with the floor boards,
so we named him Oak.
Stood like a sawhorse blocking a child
from the street as if to say I will not let you die.
A predator, ate teddy bears.
More than anything loved to ride in our car.

Stumbled one day groaning to the yard,
collapsed on a bed of blooming lilies.
In the house Rose discovered
he’d eaten most of a braided hearth rug
like swallowing a rope of rags.
Why?

Would not explain, would not budge,
would not open his eyes in that garden,
not for love nor bacon. Insides aflame,
between gurgle and sigh,
waiting to die.

Rose would not let him.
Home alone, she could not lift eighty pounds
of yellow Lab but in stroke of genius
drove the car across flowers right up to Oak,
and she opened the door.

He cocked a blond eyebrow.
Slowly in agony raised himself.
Clumsily with a push on his behind
climbed into the vintage VW,
wedged his head out the window.
Sunday, tiny town, no vet.

Rose drove. For miles.
Doggy head lifted, neck stretched.
Nose inhaled fresh rolling scent
of pastures green, of dirt road dust.
He panted — with dangled tongue,
with ancient lust.

Do you sometimes drive,
simply drive,
top open or windows down,
casting your demons to the breeze?

Rose drove home.
Oak stepped out, shook himself
as if shedding water or madness,
and without thought of past or future
trotted peaceably into the house.

…..

First published in Please See Me
Photo: Oak the floor, Oak the dog, and my son

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I take off my shirt and she giggles

 

I take off my shirt and she giggles

Trainee, a med tech who looks like
a high school girl in a white lab coat.
Treadmill, a stress test to measure
my heartbeat while I stride. First
she reviews a sheet of instructions.
Looks up, and she giggles.
“Excuse me but I have to shave
your chest hair so the electrodes
will stick.” Behind her a nurse, older,
arms folded, watches scowling.

From a can the tech squirts Barbasol
in white foamy circles, then scratches
with a BIC disposable razor, pink.
“Am I hurting you?”
I assure her it’s fine, it feels like the belly
of a mouse running over my chest.
Looks up, eyes wide.
“Does that happen often?”  

Leans in, brow furrowed,
tip of tongue at corner of mouth.
Her breath on my damp skin
like the touch of butterfly wings.
Works left-handed, razor between
thumb and middle finger which seems odd
until I notice her index finger is missing
above the second joint. I want to ask
What happened? What accident?
Am I your first chest? but such questions
seem somehow too intimate even as
her razor is circling my left nipple.
For the first time in my life I wonder
how my nipples compare to other men.

A throat clears.
Trainee and I both swing our eyes
to the nurse who grins and says
“Next time you’ll use the electric shaver
like the rest of us. Okay?”
Trainee puts hands to mouth.
Then bursts into laughter.
She’s been hazed. And by chance, I.

A doctor opens the door:
“What am I missing?”
Nurse says “Nothing. I’ve got this.”
Trainee presses electrodes to my hairless skin.
Adjusts a dial, flips a switch.
Already she’s older.
Tells me to match the pace of the machine.
Ready to test my heart.

…..

First published in Broadkill Review. Thank you editor Kari Ann Ebert

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Chocolate Fudge

 

Chocolate Fudge

Gently we shake the quilt,
wake the boy who sleeps with
Chocolate Fudge, a bear.
Through dark streets we drive
silent bear and wide-eyed boy
without a sip of water or bite of food.

We act normal as if there is a normal
while in a bright room the nurse offers
boy and bear a choice of gowns,
blue or white. Choices—
we wish for more.

Nurse lets the boy push the big button
opening double metal doors to surgery.
In his too-large blue paper gown,
blue paper slippers, hair sticking up as usual,
he enters, pivots toward us—a quick
goodbye wave—a smile. Doors close
with a sound like a gulp.

We hold Chocolate Fudge
wrapped with blue crinkly gown
in a grip so fierce he might die.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen.

Note: Boy and bear, now age 43, are fine. They are also fine musicians. The instrument the bear is playing is an electric mandolin, built by boy long ago. 

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