RETRIEVE
This is where the couple were killed
crossing the road. So I am careful
as if I’m holding a baby.
Amanda’s ball bounces fearlessly
among the tractor trailers. Had Clara
and Joe been made of rubber,
hollow inside, maybe they’d have survived.
“Don’t worry,” I shout to a tearful Amanda.
“I’ll get it back for you.”
It’s been a hot, dry summer.
Jake is watching from the window.
He can hold his breath but
not as long as the sky’s been doing.
“Jesus, child, be careful.
First it’s cousins. Then it’s crops.
What next does the good Lord
want to take from me.”
The dog could care less.
He’s chasing an insect. First,
he maims it with his paw.
Then he lets it go ’cause, despite the weather,
he’s not done pursuing.
And Rita’s in bed for the fortieth day,
fortieth night. She doesn’t have to wander
in the desert. It comes to her.
She’d give her painful right leg
to be able to cross a street
under her own steam,
even if it meant dodging
the Caspers in their rusty pickup.
Suddenly, would you believe it,
there’s a gigantic pause to the road.
Where two minutes before,
it had been a crazy freeway full of cars,
now it’s as empty as a football field at dusk.
I could picnic on the center line.
Amanda’s about to run after me
but I tell her “No… stay.” Even nothing
can be dangerous around here.
Joanne’s in the kitchen.
She’s in love with the smells
her leather hands can muster.
She loves to bewilder the local
noses with helping of spices
she picks up in the city.
And who does she have to cook for…
Rita who can’t taste a thing,
Jake who doesn’t know sirloin from possum.
And Amanda’s only five years old.
Like me, she’d rather cereal than anything.
Joanne stares intently at her spice rack.
Maybe she should label them all ingratitude.
I’ve got so many reasons to hate summer.
The mice are so sassy, peek up from the
grass and poke their tongues. And my
ears don’t stop buzzing with mosquitoes.
And the ants are in everything. Jake
sprays, Joanne swats, but Rita can’t do
anything but feel them crawl across her face.
I’m on the opposite side of the road,
ball in hand. The vacuum awaits in
the parlor. It’s my chore. Hate the job
but I must admit I love the rollicking
sound it makes. Amanda finds a moment
of patience from somewhere, stands
there patiently while a lumber truck
rolls by, a tanker, a Cadillac, and their
mirror images the other way.
I could have Rita’s life here in my hands
as well for all the use she gets out of it.
And Jake’s blooming field rained on by my young
flesh, long hair, how far my eyes can see.
Even enough insects for the dog to chase two canine lifetimes.
And the meal Joanne prepares that has
everyone sprawled back in their chairs
and sighing “Wow!” Damn, the ball’s
got a nail in it. Just my luck. By the time
I return the world to Amanda, it will be a flat one.
THE BIRD AND THE GLASS
Only the dipping neck
of the bird posed over
the drinking glass is sane.
Its dialectic bobbing
is a relief from
the chaos around it,
the waitresses who dash
back and forth in my head,
cooks angrily snatching
orders from clips
in the busy diners of the heart.
It substitutes for the dream.
I do not have to be
at the center of a vast amphitheater.
There is no need for tours
buzzing all around me,
students with notebooks,
guides proficient in a thousand languages.
The bird can be my doubts,
my prognosis, my premonition.
It can be the vague faces on the wall,
the stuff half-heard,
the person I thought I knew.
A child of its physical limitations,
it has nothing better to do
than be clear and precise.
Dip, pop back, dip, pop back.
It works every time.
A man in the background
is lecturing the crowds
on where I let them down
but the bird responds to its mechanics,
dips down into the cold beer
of the universe,
rises back up into the light,
the taste of understanding on its lips.
BoySlut 