Bret Addison
A Dream by Caroline Albert
Neuropathy
Back when the snow came
for weeks we lived in forts
tossing our arsenal at passing cars,
running knee deep among the drifts
until evening gathered
and nudged us to the porch light.
Heat from the fireplace
glows upon wet socks
the fire burns terrible
like coals in the feet
lit by an acetylene torch
Mama would rush me
to the bathroom and run cold
water upon my smoldering
limbs and I would weep
and shake my feet until
warmth extended down
from my knees and I could
finally wiggle my toes.
Now, it's always wet socks
by the fireplace and nails
could be hammered through
my feet to the floor
just keep me steady
but, warmth never comes.
The fire only spreads up further
and now my left hand is frozen
to the touch of your skin.
I fear that soon only my lips
will remember you.
craigslist Denver
Nothing touches me today
but an unwanted baby
and a plea for a ride
to the East coast.
A young girl's living
is drawn in a new line,
the pencil is now ink.
The line starts in her womb.
She enters her pleading
to go home on the net
and waits for email.
This squirming
in her belly
is not just her fear
of him not loving her.
The line starts in her womb
and extends across the miles
to her Mother, whose arms
she cannot reach.
"Assisted" Living
Ice collects on the window.
An old man yells for the cats
out the back door
like a farmer calling hogs.
Breakfast is served at 7:30
and are quiet collections
of the best equipped.
Only those with walkers
make it down to eat cereal
and the piece of toast.
De-caffeinated coffee
is in both pots. The old
don't need stimulation.
The goal is to keep
them quiet and praying
each morning at the devotions.
Manicures moved to Saturday
morning brings discomfort
and confusion. Is today bingo?
Noon brings
a new round of conversation.
Those whose children still
visit talk of Saturday or
the phone call that woke them
from a deep sleep last week.
A kind grandson, living in Texas,
is pored over again. The old
are too tired to scream
and only the demented fight.
These are how the last days
stumble on, in a hallway
poorly lit, getting
dimmer with each step.
A Call to Your Dreams
I think of a farm not there.
Trees not growing,
a lack of garden needs hoeing.
No chickens with fresh eggs laid,
a cow not lowing.
A kiss on your shoulder,
my hand sliding along your hip
as you lay on your side.
You move in your sleep
and feel me against you,
desiring you as my hand
cups your breast.
As you wake
the sheets behind you
are cold. I am at
a lost street corner
on the map of your body,
a thousand miles from
your lips.
At Once Truly Meeting
Her head resting
on my arm
is an answer
so thoroughly given,
I've forgotten the question
other than her lips
plucking kisses
from my mouth,
a warm moist fruit
to be chewed slowly
and hips thrust
trying to swallow me
pleading as I smile
begging me to enter
and my hand is a moth
fluttering around her
breasts landing softly
in the yellow light
as she moans eyes closing
to picture me in her
where she arrives
I am waiting
my tongue slides
across her belly
as she sighs
for the first time
and holds me closer
to roam together
in our dreams
Indian Ocean 1975
Remembering the sea
is an ancient ache beneath the muscles,
a stiff soreness somewhere under the bones.
The steel of a warship gets into your skin
and becomes your toughened hide.
It worms its way into you and there's nothing
to cough up or purge.
The jet fuel in the shower water
is your smell of the Ocean.
The swaying of the land swells,
interrupted by the clang and jerk
of the steam catapult flinging a plane,
loaded with Napalm, out into the darkness.
This jolt and roll becomes your rocking chair.
Listening to the old salts telling stories
and snickering about people touching
is an obscene sermon, and you
just wish the preacher would
shut up, with the fucking, for awhile.
Days wind their own watch,
as you hide under the hangar bay,
with no women, no children, no birds, nor fish.
Until finally, you reach for an excuse
to climb the ladders and taste the wind
once again and when you reach
that final hatch onto the flight deck
something mighty and un-namable happens:
Stars so clear and close they kiss you,
the breeze holds you like your mama
and just saying your lover's name
makes you cry warm tears and
this is how the sea stays salty.
You stand in the middle of that night,
truly naked for once and begin
becoming your own myth.
Orville wandered off last night
Orville wandered off last night. Orville's the little man I sit with every morning at breakfast and we have the same conversation and I pretend it’s brand new because he’s earned the right to repeat and replay the same worn record in his head if he wants too. There is only one nurse working at night and he must have just walked off into the darkness that matches his own tired little darkness. The police found him down at the casino about a mile away around 3:30 AM. The bright lights must have attracted him.
Where were you for those four hours, Orville? Did you visit your wife’s cold grave now gone these twenty years? Did your children finally show up? The ones you talk about every day in between the "You're too big to mess with" words that have become your hourly greeting to me. Did you find the New World that matches your ravings? Those moments when the words and pictures jumble up and you scream at the nurse, “Talk! Talk! Talk!" The other residents don't talk about those wheeled out by the EMT's in the middle of the night. They don't mention you. You were wheeled out to them. Gone. They fear your name for fear it soon will become their name. They see the fading rose awaiting them and know the walk is one they take alone. Children no longer nurture them as yours no longer feed your soul. Perhaps the spark of life in a family has only so many embers and you should be pushed from the flame to venture towards the lights only to discover it’s a casino. Reading you Lowell does no good anymore. I will put the book away. I'll let you drift and become just a faint whisper along these halls as those before you whispered their last pleas to God.
I Remember a Child
What small hymn did the orchard hum today?
Did the Blues Jays curse
and chase you again?
What did the sun and wind
whisper through your black curls?
What dance did you learn,
busting up black clods of dirt
with your bare feet,
as you followed the plow?
What song did you sing
to the white butterflies,
As they danced to your tune
in the alfalfa and clover?
Now, you are a vapor
trailing across my broad sky
or the yellow flicker of fireflies
above the soy beans.
You are invisible to me
except where you’ve been.
My Heroes are With Me
Saturday morning used to bring cartoons
of Mighty Mouse and Johnny Quest.
They started at seven and lasted till noon,
then the baseball glove all oiled
and the fresh tape on the bat
took me out the front door
running to the empty field behind
the Receiver’s house next to the corn field.
I, a small white boy, would pretend
to be Roberto Clemente and stand
like he stood at the plate and swing
for average instead of power,
peppering the opposite field
for extra bases, pleading with my
arm for the power to throw from
right field to home plate low and quick,
on the mark, ignoring the cutoff man
at first base, too young to know where
the Dominican Republic is at on the map
or why it’s good for a small farm boy,
in Indiana to love a black man
in a Pirates cap.
Reaching a Point
He walks down a gravel road.
Birch trees, the lambs, the creek
surrounds his view towards
the white painted steeple.
A steeple doused in tobacco
and witching wands, pointing
some true way to God.
He keeps walking
and remembers the boy in bible class
that stomped his fingers
as he crawled towards
the good Lord, snakes
in the pews, the preacher’s
white hot finger pointing
at him.
He keeps walking
past the Burley fields
the boys had to worm.
Walking down the rows
grabbing the big green worms
and crunching their heads
between thumb and finger
till they were green for days.
He keeps walking
into the crack of a rifle
as true and deadly
as a miner's cold dark sweat.
The shot, now a muffled voice
hidden down in the holler.
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