Fables

A collection of short poems about us.

THE PENCILS OF ELOWEN

elowen with her twin boys

and older son nate

and younger son daniel

has so much to tend to

so much to untangle

it’s no wonder she forgets

all she wants to create

the red box holding yellow pencils

in two neat rows

flat on each end

at the back of

her desk drawer

late in summer

with the daily mustering

and bellowing of the wind

beechnuts fall from husks

through triangular windows

onto the ground in numbers beyond count

cascading from the silhouette of the tree

whose branches are within reach

massive in the open meadow

as the day’s last sunlight

fades into its smooth gray bark

alone for an anxious moment 

between exhausted moments

she reminds herself

they’re all nuts

what’s the point

of raking them up

she repeats it again

what she’s known all along

it keeps happening before

most of the seeds

rot in the earth

a few don’t

some of the pencils

get sharpened

most won’t

EMILE

soon no one

will be left to

remember chief

petty officer emile once

a dental assistant

in the navy

on the u s s wasp

in the 40s in the war

launching planes

cleaning teeth

everyone hoping to live

some destined to die

on the sea with

shiny whites

their cavities filled

rumor is he was

reprimanded in

port for playing too

much chess on board

with the captain

no one else could even

come close to winning

against the old man

but with a world war

going on and a ship

to command and his access

above station

he was ordered to stop

after the victory

after the dalliance

with the fiery redhead

in havana his

sisters whispering

about it forever

in his steady way

just wanting

time and again

to be a short riff

to someone like jazz

not famous like sinatra

or ellington or dean

just a bit apart

dead smart

landing a job

as a teller

in a bank

learning bridge

cultivating chess

marrying

but no children

before DINKs

was a thing finding

satisfaction in his

consistent loyalty

to good friends

not suffering

fools or

detractors

at all

steady

in his fond

suggestions

and curmudgeonly

but consistent emotions

for his small circle

of relations

who in the end

did not know

exactly how

to mark his stone

or from their

separate places

with passing years

and life's

daily commotions

to love him back

JOSEPHINE

you can’t

believe in god

when your husband

makes that little

and drinks that much

and fucks you into litters

but you tried

after baby four

they drove you to

the nuthouse nuts

bleeding in and

bleeding out

beyond repair

except you

were too poor and had

no choice but

to recover

woke up on

the morning after

your husband’s dead

still half alive

in the small

apartment

under the eaves

of the third

tenement floor

kids gone

migrated to the

other side of town

you pass time with

the other canuck

ladies sewing brightly

colored stoles

and chasubles

for the catholic priests

and the matching

gowns for the

porcelain statue of

the baby jesus

right up front

at the church of

the sacred heart

a pale christ

oddly doll-like

with his hand raised

as if to voice an objection

at a kindergarten debate

a little bit

of a jesus

wearing the stiff

gown you stitched

and watching through

his bright blue eyes

the parishioners

just below the lectern

where the priest

who’s decked

out dapper

in your coordinating

liturgical vestments

his cincture knotted

round his middle

unpacks his sermon

about what happens

before birth

after life

THE MEMORIES OF FLORENCE

florence

the realist painter

in frayed denim

with her floppy hat

with too many cats

with fading tattoos

has lost her way

in the gloaming

to keep out

the sadness

of the world

to close her door

to the sorrow

the iron hinges

have snapped

from rust

from use

from the openings

the closings

she cannot forget

she mutes the colors

on the brushes

touching her canvas

carelessly smudges

the charcoal studies

of the overhanging trees

alone

most nights

she listens

to the creaking

of the nemorous dark

watches without regret

what never should have begun

become 

ALPHONSE II

oh if only

twa was still flying

what journeys

we might travel

through the

accumulated clouds

together on its

silver wings

so woke

so wiser

alphonse was

already quite dead

like the hughes’ airline

a bankruptus americanus

when the bud light

boycott blossomed

like the flowers of

humulus lupulus

sprouting from

the vigorous vines

of white grievance

a controversy

about a transgender

influencer promoting

lightness when

everyone knows

only female hops

make beer

alphonse

was named after

his pop and always

was second but

would have been first

in his hatred for

the “t” in trans world

would have given

up with gusto

his beer to embrace

the controversy

wheels up

no landing thus

we can say

all this

with fear

but without

equivocation

because dead

white men

never shut up

whiskey pints killed

alphonse the first

and the second

was done in

in large part

by a full-throated

daily imbibing

of the insipid lager

of a pale sister brand

promoted with

big horses

ANDREA

the night of

the lunar

new year

and nothing

changes

for andrea

at the

anchor

desk

but her point

in the cycle

of chaos

the breaking

cable news

that binds us

is another

slaughter

of folks

who gathered

together

quietly

inside

a church  

to pray

far away

from the horror

she fills

the numbing gaps

between the

names and faces

of the dead

by reporting

in her

broadcast

statistics

that compare

the alleged

perpetrator’s age

to the median age

of mass shooters

THE LAWYER'S WIFE

it was god’s original sin

not hers

the gift of self-deception

to these men without

the basic know-how

to let her in

her drive

from there to here

with no warning signs

for the rough terrain

the curves the bends

the rapidity with which

the road descends

only man-made maps

to chart her destination       

google’s synthesized voice

reciting disbelief and grief  

as her faithless companion

her music plays

in an endless loop

to what’s left of hope

she yells

at the illuminated dash

just look at me

look what i did

look what i do

after she triple-taps

the credit card

to pump the gas

when her tank

is almost empty

alone in the myth

of the deserted

convenience station

where nothing

is supposed to stare back

the sudden gasp

along the way

caught for a moment

in the headlights

of a swerving bus

full of sleeping children

sometimes she knows

it’s all too bright

she pleads with

night’s lonely ride

when bats and owls cut

the starless sky

when deer and skunks

cross the center line

to be seen by anyone

for who she is

steadfast

reliable

behind the steering wheel

of the crossover

her wingless aching

shoulder blades

she prays

to be remembered

as summer falls

for parking the family car

with ne'er a scratch

in the narrow garage

when the journey home is over