Spark

 

Spark

I’m delivering firewood.
You’re leaning over a triple sink, 
sleeves rolled up in a baggy sweatshirt, 
elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing
93 soup bowls in the camp kitchen 
where washing dishes is punishment
but what could you do wrong?

Your hair is a swirl on top 
like black soft-serve ice cream 
with one lock loose over the forehead. 
Cheeks shiny. You reach overhead 
in rubber gloves for a can of Comet cleanser 
(stretching, exposing belly, unaware) 
when you see me and try to push 
the straggle of hair from your face  
leaving little bubbles among the freckles. 

You smile.
Your teeth are straighter than mine. 
You say, “Want a potato chip?” 
“I’d love one.”
Sparkle eyes, green.
We’re sixteen.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you editor James Lewis.

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Librarian, Potsdam, New York

 

Librarian, Potsdam, New York

In the old stone-step library 
    housing epic tales
a glorious woman with glowing hair
    color of late-day sky
dances like a flag on a used-car lot.

Her silver dress clings—
    snakeskin with a bulge where
she swallowed a bunny.

She tap-dances 
    rat-a-tat-tat heels 
across wooden floor 
slapping stories into shelves 
    adventures in volumes
while the womb a perfect partner
    follows her lead.

She flicks overhead lights
meaning you must gather and go
    check out the legends
    or leave them behind.
She’ll lock all doors 
    caging you in
    or shutting you out
as she dances onto the stage, 
the great theater of motherhood
    tales tragic and joyful
as we all live our own drama.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig — thank you editor Hayley Haugen

This poem was inspired by a librarian in Potsdam, New York who danced, literally danced over the floors beneath the high ceiling as she shelved books while in a corner I was among a gathering of St. Lawrence County poets. Her passion internal, oblivious of anyone watching. Her belly was high drama, her slithery dress a silver flame, her clicking heels a startling counterpoint to the slumbering books. Here’s to that child—may you grow with that love. 

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Nurture Nature

 

Nurture Nature

In pots Mom nurses 
avocado saplings 
(94 —today’s count)
in stages of leafy growth— 
root-bound, crying for transplant— 
plus a couple hundred pits 
suspended in jars of water, 
waiting to sprout. 
Or not sprout. 
Miscarriage is common 
but tossing a pit into trash 
would be like tossing a baby, 
says Mom. 

The saplings don't like this climate 
under redwood trees in coastal fog 
but that's life—you don't get to choose 
where you’re born. Ask any teenager. Ask me.
Come visit, try our guacamole. 
Take some home. And some babies. 
Please. Before they grow dotty and old.

…..

First published in Autumn Sky Poetry by editor Christine Klocek-Lim
Image by johso

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Instructions for Smart Toilet (Addendum)

 

Instructions for Smart Toilet (Addendum)

If you smell smoke
stand up immediately.
Remain calm.

Grab extinguisher first
—not your shorts.
(Always hang extinguisher 
within reach of toilet.)

Smother flames 
with foam.
Pull up shorts
if not too painful.

Reboot toilet
—or—
Call tech support.
Please
stop shouting.

…..

Photo from odditycentral.com

Note: As a man in Xiamen, China, used the “smart” toilet in his home, he first smelled smoke — right before the toilet burst into flames. He didn’t have time to pull his shorts back up, but he did manage to capture pictures of the toilet with flames emerging from the bowl. Other incidents of toilets bursting into flame in China have been reported over the last two years. (From News of the Weird.)

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Missouri Magic

 

Missouri Magic

Sitting in dirt, on our bottoms 
(our rumps, little Lily calls them) 
at sunset we wait for Aunt Meg’s 
evening primrose to bloom. And they do! 
As if spring-loaded they burst open 
flinging their scent, bright yellow
(like a smell-bomb, says Lily). 
After one night of blossom, Aunt Meg 
tells us, the petals will drop off. 
“The original one night stand” she says, 
a joke which is lost on Lily.
I’ve brought my girl from California 
to see family and the simple glories
of the Midwest. She’s fascinated. 

Across the lawn we behold fairy lights 
winking, rising to the trees.
“Do they like sugar?” Lily asks. 
So we fill a jar with blinking bodies. 
Add sugar. Make up a song:
     Firefly firefly 
     twinkle twinkle
     With these sweets
     we sprinkle sprinkle
“Do you hear me?” she asks.
They seem bored. We let them go. 

Heat lightning in a cloudless sky—
God is answering the bugs.
Locusts clatter like a freight train.
A whippoorwill calls making the music, 
Lily decides, of meteors. The air 
so full of sounds, so darkly green, 
so muggy with moisture—this night 
so thick we can hold in our hands.

For a finale we wave sizzling sparklers 
spelling our names against the stars 
and then it’s bath time, bedtime.
No rockets. No boom. Just glory.
Fourth of July.

…..

First published in Storyteller Poetry Review. Thank you editor Sharon Waller Knutson

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