#83: "In Glue We Trust" by Joanne Rocky Delaplaine

 ~This poem previously appeared in Poet Lore (2004). 

In Glue We Trust

I believe love is the glue that holds the world intact.

I believe in the temporary bond of Post-it notes, 

the L-5 bus driver who took me out of the cold,

the wet, whose hands were God’s, delivering me

to the promised land, though I believe promises,

like lives, are bound to come undone.

I believe in Duco Cement. It smells blade sharp,

dries on your skin like it’s peeling down to

raw bone. I believe in the glue of your bones

against my own. I believe in the glue librarians use

to bind books, I believe in the invisible glue

that binds them to their work.

I believe in hot wax on hard copy, putting

the newspaper to bed, in a union shop, many hands

hauling to a common song.  I believe in going home, 

and coming back to work. I believe in the solder

and acetylene torch. I believe in the jazz of steel on brass,

in Ella and Louie delighting in a B-flat, be-bop scat.

I believe in the law of magnets: that opposites attract,

the alchemy of Muslim and Jew, thin and thick, of white

and black. I believe in clay slip used to cover cracks,

the broken leg that’s wrapped in a cast, the aloe vera balm

on burns, the salve of words,  I believe my salvation

is buried in the cell tissue of my scars.

I believe that gentle hands can know the knife, the cut,

the sword. I believe in Kali and her necklace of skulls.

I believe there will always be wars. I believe we are born

with the knowledge of our death, that we make it up as we go,

flying on a dream and a curse, hanging by the blues,

swinging from a high note of grace.

I believe when my daughter was Rumplestiltzkening

inside me, we spun the finest gold on earth. 

I believe I bring my spider’s silk with me

to bind me fast to this oh-oh, this no-you-don’t,

this Devil-May-Care-, this roll-of-the-dice,

this doo-wah, doo-wah, wind-blown world.

*****

#82: "Keeper" by Steve Adams

~This story first appeared in Glimmer Train (1998).

Keeper

There was the smell of the dust, and the smell of the sand, and the smell of the rides, and the smell of the crowds which each day had a different smell, and there was the smell of the horses and the morning and the night. There was the smell of The Thing and The Thing's shit. So it smelled. What didn't?

Well, he thought. Alright, then. So he changed it.

"I'll need talc, or corn starch if you don't have it, and a first aid kit in case it's got sores from being swaddled up so. Don't tell Old Man Dawkins. He keeps changing it every morning just like before. You use diapers?"

"Yeah."

"So we'll go through twice as many diapers. If I'm gonna do this I don't want to be running out."

Jacobsen stared at the kid. "Okay. We'll get more diapers."

"And I'll need somebody to help with the trash. "It's too much for me already. If I got to take care of it, too…"

"I've had men quit can't take its screaming. Once it starts up…night after night screaming and won't stop. How the hell do you make it shut up?”

"I dunno."

"What do you do?”

"I dunno. I sing to it. That's one thing."

"You sing to it?"

"That's one thing."

What he meant was, what he wouldn't tell Jacobsen was, The Thing stopped screaming before he ever sang to it. It stopped the moment it saw him.

#81: "Rise That We All May Rise" by Maud Kelly

~This poem previously appeared in Natural Bridge (2009).

Rise That We All May Rise

One moment your neighbor is vibrant. As you mulch your lawn she walks by, two children striding alongside, headed to school or home.

The next she’s gone. Or not exactly. She’s receded, gone ill.

She’s bald shadow, or something, an eagle, maybe, turning her head to look at you when you bring the casserole, when you smile and squint your eyes and tell her she looks good.

There’s an art to it, a kind of sport, to hovering, to gathering the neighbors, and you do, and put your heads together: blonde heads and redheads and children’s heads, books and movies in baskets, and your own walking back and forth across the lawn, making it nice, the thoughts you shake off.

Later, after your visit, your skin lathered in the shower and the steam, a picture comes to you. That owl, the big golden and cream-colored owl that appeared out of nowhere one day and perched right on the edge of your road, inches from the cars.

As they rolled by it barely moved its boxy head. Just the wind ruffled its flurry of neck, and its shoulders seemed – stalwart – was that the right word?  Probably not, but it seemed to ache, and you’d have thought it would have hidden itself in the trees, but it hadn’t.

Usually you would have called the sanctuary and had them come but something in it spooked you and you pulled into your own driveway instead, got out, turned toward the broom, or, no, to the rake, or was it just that you reached into your pocket for the keys. Whatever, it didn’t matter now.

But the way you felt then, as though every still thing in the world could stitch itself like a stone under your skin and keep you from moving, too. Like any one thing you did would matter no more than any other.

*****

#80: Four Poems by George David Clark

~This poem was previously published in Smartish Pace (2011).

The Plush

                        “In the shadows a bad guy upholsters his weapon.”

                        -typo in a student’s fiction

He cocks the parlor lamp to throw a blade

of light across the contours of the problem:

the gutted wing chair that his young wife paid

for with a five. To cover it will rob him

of the evening, but if she comes home to fine

décor, she’ll be in debt another favor.

Their meal last night, the veal filet and wine,

has canceled out the flowers that he gave her

and his note: you do too much. So, to do more,

to best her, hold her hostage in the name

of sacrifice, he sinks a knife into the chore

and staple-guns a crewelwork to the frame.

When he hears her car, he stands and aims

the chair, that padded weapon, at the door.

 *** 

#79: "Five Positions" by Renée K. Nicholson

~This essay previously appeared in The Gettysburg Review (2007).

 

Once burned by milk you will blow on cold water.

--Russian Proverb

I was once a ballet dancer.  While I was a dancer, I collected quotes from famous people in the dance world and from the less famous Russians I met in ballet.  Because Russia produced so many proficient dancers, they completely infiltrated my American experience, the influence of their methodology everywhere.  They often shared with me their proverbs, sayings meant to convey their truth, but perhaps veiled, as I often veil my own.  The proverbs, like their technique, went straight to the heart of things.  But the proverbs were difficult and, like ballet steps, could never fully be mastered.

George Balanchine Americanized ballet, but he was originally trained in St. Petersburg.  Like the other Russians, Balanchine was famous for his proverbs, most of which he concocted; he was also famous for his ballerinas: very young, very thin, a blend of athlete and siren.  He invented the baby ballerina.  If old Hollywood immortalized the sexy, curvy blonde, Balanchine created a new fetish: the sleek brunette.  Of course, when I was seven and first stepped into a ballet class, I had no idea about any of this.

First

A Russian proverb: you do not need a whip to urge on an obedient horse.  In the first year, we learned to bend, plié, and to stretch the leg and the foot, tendu; then we learned to sketch circles with our pointed foot on the floor, rond de jambe par terre.  “Pull your stomach in,” instructed Ms. Helen, my first teacher.  “Derrière tucked under.  Turn out from the hips.  Lead with the heel of your foot.”  Holding my stomach in was the hardest part.

“In first position,” said Ms. Helen, “make a slice of pie with your feet.  Stand with heels together, legs and feet turned out, pointing away from the body.  Turn out from the hips as much as possible, and do not let your knees or ankles twist.”  I tied my hair back into a bun, little sprigs defiant at the temples.  I wore pink tights, forest green leotard with cap sleeves, little pink Capezio slippers, soft leather, elastics sewn at the heel. 

Made up in thick blue eyeliner and dark mauve lipstick, Ms. Helen kept her hair short.  She wore chiffon skirts in pink and jeweled green.  She wore clogs and smelled of heavy perfume.  I thought she was glamorous. 

My first pair of slippers: “You have to fit them tightly,” said the woman at the dance store.  “The teachers won’t like it unless they’re snug.  Ballet is not something you can grow into.”  The sales lady had a mass of carrot red hair on top of her head in a messy knot.  With her stubby fingers, she checked the fit of the slippers.

Ms. Helen told us to open our legs into a straddle split.  Mine: straight out to each side--splat!--open!  After that class Ms. Helen talked to my mom, and I started taking classes twice a week.  By the time I was ten, I took ballet every day.

#78: Two Poems by Rupert Fike

~Both of these poems previously appeared in The Alabama Literary Review (2012).

Western Lit in Poultry Science

                     - 1966

After French we had fifteen minutes to leave

the columned quad, climb Ag Hill and find

PoulSci, its smoked-glass doors our portal

to a fetid planet, its atmosphere

the face-slap you never got used to -

chickens in the basement being chickens.

Our professor offered no jokes, welcomes.

Yes, an angry young man, we thought. Finally.

Perhaps he even read The Village Voice.

Easy to now see he was a grad assistant

pissed at this departmental exile.

Why me? he must have thought. Why did I

get sent to the barnyard, far from Park Hall

where the tenured read their ancient lectures

in the eternal air of burnt coffee,

where round-bottomed girls leaned to copiers

in the halls whose walls bespoke verse.

He sighed at our orange plastic chairs and

the green blackboard with its smudged equations.

He said it’d be tough to read Homer here,

even though Greece had maybe smelled like this.

And in that first class he used in medias res,

he skipped ahead to get our attention,

to Helen’s sigh, “Shameless whore that I am.”

We liked hearing that word in a classroom.

This was college, where you didn’t giggle.

The thick air coated our throats all quarter,

forced us to spit it out after class,

a smell that didn’t bother the PoulSci majors

in their white t-shirts and unpressed Levis

who would soon be rich from using hormones,

genes, drugs to grow strips, fingers, McNuggets,

vanilla protein the coming world would crave.

We brushed elbows with them in the hallway

on our way to read lines from the old world

with our still grumpy teacher. We invented

back-stories for him – a lost love, a jilt.

But mostly we worried how he’d grade.

There was a war, and we could be drafted.

*****

#77: "At the Asylum" by Linda McCullough Moore

~This piece was previously published in New York Stories (2004).

  

Melissa asks us each to write four sentences – three true, one not true, and then we will read them and have everybody guess the false one.  I’m not sure how this is supposed to make us less likely to try to off ourselves again, but it’s probably as likely to succeed as any other plan.  I’ve been here three days – 259,200 seconds at midnight tonight - and it seems to me a full half of what we’re asked to do here makes suicide the sensible alternative.

            But what do I know? They say a person never kills himself for the reason he thinks he’s doing it, which seems to me a real kick in the teeth.  I mean, if you cash in your chips early, you like to think you’ve got at least the whys and wherefores figured.  But hey, I like to think these people know their stuff.  I’d hate to think that all these Melissa’s are as befuddled as the rest of us who pick up pills and razor blades for reasons we will die not knowing.

            I write: I have two brothers, I have three brothers, I  have four brothers, I have five brothers, for my four sentences  Actually, all four sentences are true.  I did have five brothers till one died in the Gulf War, then four, till they invented AIDS, then three, till 9/11.  I have two this afternoon.  My last shrink said she hoped the irony of these American watermark deaths did not escape me.  My shrink here says I didn’t do the pill thing because of any one of them.  (Like I say, a person likes to think these people know what they’re talking about.)