The Messenger
by Elizabeth Buckner
INITIATION
35 years ago
in my mothers patio
I tried to catch
the neighbor’s pet hamster
as it climbed up a wall.
Instead, I was bitten by
that reviled rodent--a gopher
instantly one of my power animals.
Later, a member of the
LA CO Health Dept.
summoned to the scene
to collect the creature and
perform tests for possible diseases
laughed, then declared,
“Gophers don’t carry rabies
and hamsters don’t have tails.”
VISITATION
Last spring
through a prison
classroom window
I observed an inmate
dressed in denim blues
covered with tattoos,
a yellow flower in hand
sitting cross-legged
on an island of green grass
amidst a sea of
asphalt, concrete and
waves of chain link fence
crowned with concertina wire,
staring into a hole in the ground
waiting for the dirt to rise up
and over the edge
for the gopher to appear topside.
Then
he offered the calendula
petal by petal
to the resident rodent.
It grabbed each petal
disappeared down below
stashed the food in its cache
and reappeared for more.
Three other burly blue men
with floral offerings
patiently stood in line
waiting for a turn
hoping for a chance
to stroke its silky head.
This ritual continues.
COMMUNICATION
May morning in Mexico
our group sat on dry grass
listening to a lecture
beside the marvelous
Temple of Quetzalcoatl,
the feathered serpent, at
Teotihuacan--the city of the gods,
barred from the temple entrance
by chain link fence and locked gate
for restoration was in progress.
To our right and just in front
of the temple entrance
a large gopher
busily unearthed a hole
as mounds of dirt rose
up and over the edge
a sleek brown head
appeared, bright eyes
surveyed the scene
then disappeared.
Momentarily, more dirt
then the rodent
popped up
looked, listened
then returned underground
only to reappear
then finally disappear
upon a visit
|
Dear John
by
Curt Hinkle
A full-size cutout of John Wayne stands in the rustic hotel lobby corner
Hat over gunfighter squint, dusty red shirt, hip-shot, tan jeans over scuffed boots
But something is wrong here……
Then it hits me
His gun belt is there but he has no gun
I ask the concierge, already pegged as a patronizing horses ass
“Where is John’s piston? In the hotel safe? Politically incorrect?”
“You are exactly right. There were complaints.”
I accept the pen from him to sign the registration
But instead, turn and walk to John
A closer look reveals ragged cardboard at his hip
Where some pimply-faced bellboy
Hacked off the Duke’s six shooter
With a dull steak knife
It makes me tired and sad
The inane do-gooders, unsatisfied with their own petty misery
Foist their errand boy views on others
The rack of mediocrity tightens another notch
That pop was the sound of your spine being destroyed
We are defined by what we settle for
“I can’t stay here,” across the wide, high ceilinged room
“I beg your pardon,” haughty
“I won’t stay here.”
“This is the last room in town, the festival, the races, the rodeo. All this weekend.”
Facing him I slide his pen into my right front pocket
Hitch up my pants with forearms; shake my hands to relax them
Go snake eyes, begin a mincing swagger toward the desk
The clerk starts to duck
My hand is a flash, my arm hardly moves
Slow is smooth and smooth is fast
I draw and shoot him with his own pen
Right where his heart would be
If he had one
I Bring You Flowers
by Connie Shephard
Nine months
Little fuzzy-head as you peer wistfully between
crib slats,
two fingers firmly planted in puckered mouth,
You look so like a baby bird
peeping from its nest.
Are you dreaming of the time that you will fly
away?
At three
Discovered far afield, on a
forbidden flower-lined walk,
instead of fleeing from capture,
you stop,
grasp and come to me to say,
"I pick you flowers, mommy."
At six
School -- a tolerated interruption of
your play.
Sand Box Construction Company sits
idled in the sun --
waiting.
Till home you rush through
swirling multicolored leaves.
Fifteen
Lightening-like clashes of cymbals
announce that you are home. Drums shatter
the silence of the house.
They beat in repetitious rhythm, jungle sound
of the untamed.
At thirty
drums are silent,
motorbike long ago sold, sandbox
nearly forgotten -- trucks rusted
in their place.
Changed are the preoccupations,
the form and the face.
But deep within new body hides
the tow-headed toddler still,
flowers clutched in grubby hand.
The mask slips,
and I see him peering
wistfully through eyes that remain the same.
And I hear him say, "I pick you flowers, mommy,"
once again. |
