James Dean’s Last Donut

Dough rises. It had scarred me
seeing mama in the casket when I was nine.
I snuck a lock of her hair
and they buried her in Marion where I was born
and where they named me after the doc
who made a house call to deliver me.
It’s easy for me to confuse
trajectory with speed.We finished filming Giant,
with voluptuous Liz named Leslie
and me as oil-driven, Jett Rink.
If I’d just kept towing my 550 Spyder
I would’ve had time to digest
the coffee and donuts
Bill and I picked up
at Hollywood Ranch Market
while the car was at
at Competition Motors.
We were headed to Salinas Racetrack.
One speeding ticket on the main drag
then I jumped the silver Spyder
on a side road, hit 85, too fast
to sidestep the Ford sedan
turning left in front of me.

Here I am in Fairmount, Indiana,
not too far from mama.
I sure do miss her, remember her dropping dough
in heated oil when the weather
wasn’t hot. She sprinkled donuts with sugar.
Maybe that’s why I chain smoked.

(Published online in The Spotlong Review April, 2024)

 

Foster Child

She knows about the shapes of things

and asks where a glimmering door leads

as she faces a tall rectangle of mirror

in the Elder’s room at a Head Start

tribal preschool. We take my key

to pretend unlock the door that is not a door.

She reports an ache in her side just now

after running outside and I think of wings

where they join, tired as if a sparrow must flee

the path of raven. Pretending’s mirror

of silvered magic will not tuck into her pocket

where drums resound upon her small frame.

(published in crowstepjournal.com)

If I Lived In This World

If I lived in this world
doors would open with barnacle keys
and close with hollow glass hearts.
I would sit on a bench in my cloth coat
collecting counter clockwise words
even while lollygagging
to the beat of an amber bird’s heart.

(published in moriaonline.com)

New Year’s Eve Women

1.

Here comes a hummingbird.

See it hover over the patio

near the watching woman whose heart still ticks.

That bird’s heart rate in her own

would be a killer – although in such winged jewels

we call it torpor of near hibernation.

The woman’s heart beats on sofa cushions

where her chambers sip nectar again. She knows

noon sun will melt the frozen liqueur outside,

sweet substitute for what was once a forest.

She would love to hang from eaves

and bask in sun drenched water,

still feels one ventricle’s tight squeeze

as she felt last night not sleeping.

2.

Farther off, across the 520 bridge, there is no patio,

where darkness enfolds the last December day.

Steps lead up to a church gym mezzanine

where twelve women

toast apple cider’s sparkling bubbles

before bedding down on mats when lights go out.

None of the women want to wait up until midnight,

their pancake turner clocks will flip a year of sour syrup

and their mats will wrestle daylight soon enough.

For now, this night’s sleep on makeshift beds is nectar.

Noisy furnace makes a music to cover snoring. 

Ribbon-tied scarves of red and blue yarn, greetings

written by school children, and coffee cards on a table

will be tucked inside their rolling satchels in the morning.

(published in seattlestar.net 1-8-2024)

Wiped Out By Caring

White wind turbines,
this rolling pasture of spires,

each with its trinity of wings
circling a clock face of sky,

forgiving the birds
their deaths

for coming too close.

(published in Inflectionist Review: inflectionism.com)

Loneliness in the Museum Garden

Picasso’s off angles

appear ready

to hurl rainbow arrows

in time for

our own blue period.

O’Keefe’s immense petals             

disappear

into her plein air campsite

as dust storms

blur edges

and she packs up her paint.

This Spring brings

its own distorted

version

of The Scream.

Will Monet’s Garden

ever scatter colors back

into leaf and bud?

Oh, to embrace again –

Mary Cassatt

holding a rosy child

near lilacs

on a table.

(macqueensquinterly.com)

Wild Sculptures Never Sway

Fifteen silhouettes, wild horses
stampeding across the mesa
look to be charging to the edge of a hill
above the mighty Columbia near Vantage
before our family crosses the bridge
in our Vanagon
singing Row, row, row your boat
each time we drive home cross the state
after visiting grandparents.

The mustangs take us back
to the legend of their unfinished creation story,
Grandfather Cuts Loose the Ponies.

So many rapid journeys East/West –
finally kids grown and gone
you and I climb the steep trail
to touch inch-thick flank
of a rearing stallion
and trace the carved stars rising skyward
someone graffiti-branded on hind legs.

Twelve hundred pounds
each horse rooted into basalt
elegant parade
as we weave ourselves among their singular poses –
some trotting and one as if it would not stop at the precipice
before leaping with perfect momentum across the landscape chasm,
one as if emerging from mother earth in a rapid gallop.
Breeze and heat amid stubbled brush. I listen for residual sounds,
perhaps wind-tossed sage brush balls scraping steel faces
and coyotes traipsing dust tracks at nightfall
amid the equines of perpetual walk, wait, rear and trot.
The largest stallion wears autographs,
initialed hearts and graduation dates
drawn over bronzed corrosion
while rearing toward the sun dry sky
as if the street artists’ climb had been orchestrated
each full moon night by the award-winning sculptor.

(published in peacockjournal.com)