November - Poem 9
Both Sides Now (in the key of Joni Mitchell) / Megan Bell
For Evie
Raised in Indiana on God and farmland, she rode horses, drank Starbucks, drove a Thunderbird - she was cool, carried her old soul casually, like a pair of great sunglasses or vintage purse. She traveled well, often - her eyes open, her heart curious. Young, she fell in love with the Caribbean, not knowing one day she would take her son back, bring friends along. Her dreams were strong, sturdy, soaring - they were larger than everything appeared in side view mirrors - so she put Indiana in her rearview at twenty-two. In Coastal California, she shook hands with the shoreline, with living. This was a promise she could bet her life on. Staking her flag, she tacked her dreams to a stable wall. She was home.
Raising her son in California on grace and sand, she drove a convertible, rubbed elbows, wrote in long hand. Her rhythm was rock-solid - God knew where she lived. Relentless, Evie discovered she could be both a wife and a mother, a daughter and a friend, a sister and a writer. She could have the picture: Bob, Henry, her dogs, this glory land. On bended knees, split wide open, she vowed to not waste a moment. Rooted in love, winged in thanks, she was moored.
Rising, always rising, like the morning sun, you could set your watch by her. She faltered only a moment, stopped to defeat cancer, to topple fear. Still, she landed in words and love, didn't lose herself to middle age or BRCA. Walked next to Bob, found she was built to break, inspired awe. Met God on her kitchen floor one night, wearing her best hoops and heels. Laid bare on cracked linoleum, she surrendered her breast, her hair, all her plans. She was tenacious.
Risen in Solvang, renewed like spring, she's writing, still dreaming lofty dreams, still putting the top down, turning the radio up, hanging poems and pictures on her walls. Her scars, reminders - she's seen "Both Sides Now." Most days, you'll find Evie down around the way, proudly driving H to school, with her holy coffee mug in hand, a sacred ritual between mother and son. They wave at strangers, laugh at life, say I love you right out loud.
And as they drive, they sing, "Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels, The dizzy dancing way that you feel, As every fairy tale comes real, I've looked at love that way."
She is well.
Old Hedgehogs / Alison Lake
After Hedgehugs by Steve Wilson
They had been the best of friends,
had become husband and wife,
then troubles came, and sorrow too,
that soon upset their married life.
Soon each day was filled with prickles,
they rubbed each other the wrong way
and time after time their quills were sharp
when they both wanted rest and loving play
No sock was thick enough for them,
the softness of the fabric didn’t serve
to ease the pain of each other’s spikes;
when they touched they hit each nerve.
They need to find a way to live
without bristling up in defense
to remember why they lived together,
to find a way to make amends.
For now, they circle quietly ‘round
and try to hold their spikes within
each hoping that the other one
recognizes the pain they’re in.
They had been the best of friends.
they had become husband and wife.
They will try each day to live with love
And put an end to their long strife.
faunalia rustica / Maya Cheav
autumn slouched towards winter
as the forests and plains prepared for hibernation.
the common folk made worship
to the goat-legged king,
in prayer and promise
for the anemoi
to be on their side,
for the fields to brew
fruitfully, so that
their bellies could be full
come the cold season.
they hoped their sacrifices
of wine and goats
would be enough to please
the satyr, so that he
would be so kind as to
make the wildwoods
tame.
pillow talk / Jada D’Antignac
gripping my wine glass with one hand and twirling my hair with the other, i ask him what’s making him feel good these days. i ask him about his love for music, what led him to love it. still curious, i ask him to name his favorite r&b artists. the conversation pivots, no longer needing my random questioning. we talk hometowns and high schools. we talk split parents and its effect. we talk personal growth and how proud we are. he glows when he speaks about his, i smile with all of my teeth as i speak about mine. i mention how protective i’ve been of myself, not wanting anyone to create a mess of what has already been cleaned. he nods, assuring me that he’s attentive. the wine sneakily reminds me how it feels to be lightweight. my thoughts become less organized. i don’t tell him i like conversations better this way. he yawns and invites me to rest my head on his chest. we’ve touched with our minds, that’s enough to hold us over.
*** / D.C. Leach
pouring my shadow into the oak's autumn dusk
A disjunctive, single-line haiku.
Kentucky Haibun #4: Ashland / Dawn McGuire
Diane finally lowers the hood.
10W-40, coolant, tire pump, a pack of spark plugs,
traded at O’Reilly’s for the hood diva.
Billy pries off the gas cap and pours in a couple of gallons.
“Stand the fuck back,” she says, as she hotwires the engine.
It grinds twice before it turns over.
Billy shouts, “Thank you, Jesus!” and points a finger to the sky
like Big Papi running the bases.
We climb in, me in the back
with the rusty toaster from the kitchen
scattering burnt crumbs.
The transmission thunks as Diane shifts into first.
Billy, high on triumph, asks,
“How come you don’t pray, anyway?”
She lights a cigarette with the car lighter,
even though it barely heats up.
“You don’t know?”
She doesn’t look at him when she says it.
The ash falls in her lap.
“You let God know where you are,
then you get stalked.”
He squints like she just told him angels are actually drones.
“Last time I prayed was the night the house burned up.
Here we are, barefoot at the end of the driveway.
Fireman hands me Dawn.
Even the swing set was melting.
Who names a cleft-lip baby damn Dawn anyway?
Sorry, babe,” she says over her shoulder.
“I didn’t let you down. Seems like for days
I wouldn’t let you down.”
She stares out the window toward the broken water pump.
“Billy, don’t you remember Papaw coming to get us?
He threw our cat out the window.
You must have been asleep.
Wouldn’t let us stop to pee til Ashland.
Mom—you say you don’t remember, but you do—
had those bad scars. Dad wouldn’t touch her. God.
He split for the steel mill in Dayton.
Then she hooked up with that hypnotist with he eye patch.
But I don’t blame her now. I met him once.
At least they sent money every month.”
Billy reaches for the glovebox Bible.
She slaps his hand.
“Don’t go waking things up.”
The car idles at the bottom of the hill,
ticking, then missing, like a bad heart.
The sun is setting red as the engine warning light.
She says, “Billy, I know you need a car,
but this old Buick? It needs somebody
who can really save it.”
drive-by roadside chapel
door wide open
nothing left to steal
role play / Samantha Strong Murphey
the fridge light goes off when the door closes
this too is an act of faith 15 years in we are forever
looking for water just like capitalism, art
can make good people bad people
the year had rolled to a stop
from the doorway he said Annie
(my name’s not Annie) he said Annie
get your gun
