Poem for Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Apple Skins

Granny told Willy she’d check the pickins
for worms and other crud if he’d
wash and dry them. Willy snatched a
damp rag and said he’d be obliged.
Granny sat in the afternoon

sun passing most of the lushgreen
apples to Willy and casting the badly
bruised ones aside like the Sodomites
she would laugh but Willy never got
that reference once throughout his
childhood. When it got too torrid

they each grabbed a wooden bucket
loaded with the fruit so full they
regurgitated an apple here and there
on the bumpier parts of the grass. Willy
hated those darn buckets ‘cause he’d

always get splinters in his thumbs and
Granny was too rough with the tweezers.
So they plopped their buckets on
the kitchen table with watery lips and
empty bellies. Willy reached in his
pocket for his maroon Swiss Army knife

but Granny shook her head no. She
told him he couldn’t peel them
apples ‘cause he’d toss out the skins and
the skins were the healthiest part
since they were chock-full of vitamins.

Willy groaned and mumbled shucks the
skins tasted like rubber so he wasn’t
gonna eat them but Granny could
have at it if she wanted. Then Granny let
out the strangest chuckle and swept
the skins off the edge of the spotless

oak into her wrinkled and calloused
palm. She said alright Willy but be careful
when you make a deal with the Devil
‘cause sometimes you gotta pay up
double. Willy rolled his big blue eyes and
stood up to leave the kitchen. He

wasn’t even hungry after all. Before Willy
stepped into the hallway Granny commanded
him to hand over his knife and he’d
get it back after supper. Then it got so quiet
the ceiling fan whirred and bellowed
like a police siren.

Poem for Monday, January 30, 2012

Happenings

Icicles are hanging from my drying
jeans dripping the color of denim
the dog the poor restless dog is
barking puffs of wintercold air I
can see them drifting then dying
anyone can.

“Be quiet” I’m scolding
that orange-bellied moon has
nothing better to do than gawk
giggle at me through the cracks.

The sky? well it’s holding its
breath somewhere between baby
blue and lights out.

Poem for Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Death Dream

you assured me

the hurt would come
in small circles over
different parts
of my body
not in one malicious
attack

i wept the same
as when
you gave me life
head first