The Poetry Marathon

I’ve never been so glad to see Kansas

as the day I’m driving through

Humboldt, Nebraska.

This is the place where they killed

Teena Brandon, because she looked

too much like a boy.

Wanted to be one, too.

She was Brandon, in the end, not Teena.

No one could rape it out of her, out of him,

although at least two men tried.

The sheriff laughed and let them go.

They came back and finished the job,

shot her at close range, then stabbed him,

to finish the job. Like they thought they were

killing two people, a two-gendered freak.

In the movie, “Boys Don’t Cry,”  they didn’t tell

how s/he always wanted hair

the color Willa Cather called

certain wheat fields in the sun.

Was it because blondes have more fun?

Or was the bleach a disguise, hoping he could

hide, from Lincoln to Falls City to Humboldt?

The house where he died sits off in the distance, mute.

It’s got to be four o’clock somewhere,

time to be civilized, and not think about

spiders or big worms coming out of the wall.

No rhyme or reason, but maybe a scorpion

or a gargantuan tarantula along a road in

Arizona. Surely it is time to finally finish off

the shortbread from Christmas, the puffy

little macaroons, pistachio and raspberry,

with a cup of that tea from Canada, King

Cole. No thoughts of black widows or

brown recluse, just remember that blackberry

cobbler and rice pudding from the deli that

would now be waiting for a midnight snack

if it hadn’t been eaten already, at noon.

homage to T. S. Eliot’s “Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufock” and the following line: “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.”

When finally you were seven, old enough to ride in

my car, in the two miles in took us to go to the

store, you looked around and said “There’s enough room

in here for my backpack, we could go to Kansas City,” the

lights in your eyes twinkling like the eyes of women

who sell fortunes to strangers on the street and come

home to twelve cats, three dogs, six fish, two turtles, and

a gerbil. “No,” I said. “Dear niece, we are authorized to go

to the store, no further,” but on and on for years, we kept talking

of Kansas City, of St Louis, and when you were eighteen, of

how we would go to London, and Florence, and Paris, to see Michelangelo.

These are the things we’ve never been permitted

to talk about: the bruises from Daddy, the scars

from the broken Sunday School slate. Whether

we were bad (which we were – tic tac toe on the pews),

whether our sisters were good (they slept in

the same room with him, so anything that

happened was mum, and made them proud,

at first). Later, after they realized, not all

fathers take such liberties, they were angry

with us. They would have taken the beatings,

any day, if we had taken the worst,

from the inside out.

No McDonald’s wrappers, here.

Only quality sustenance will last through

twenty four hours of versifying.

Already, at hour six, we’ve been through

the four elements, Leonard Cohen,

mountains and Jesus, eternity and sand.

Already we’re repeating ourselves in every

stanza, but not attempting a villanelle, and

going back in time. That’s why they call it

a marathon. So I started with cantaloupe.

Then sugar snap peas and red, red radishes.

Yes, a radish is a radish is a radish. I can’t wait

to finish off the macaroons, Magruder’s finest.

I had two to test the flavors, raspberry and pistachio.

Cookies before noon, not a good idea. So I dip into

the chef salad, a strip or two of cheese, a cracker.

The fancy one with salmon I’ll save until the wee hours,

when only berries and ice cream will really hit the spot.

T.S. Eliot I’m not, but perhaps he once got a prompt

to write about cats, and more cats, and that was that.

Once upon a time

there were black swans,

testosterone-laden geese,

and a white peacock.

It never went near the water,

but pecked for insects in the leaves

near the ranger’s house. Once,

I saw it fly up into a tree.

None of us knew the Dunnegan brothers

who loved this town’s children so much

they gave us swings sets in concrete,

and sliding boards, and picnic pavilions

for our family reunions. Even restrooms

fancier than we had ever seen, living out

highway 13, on a farm with no running water.

The Bolivar park was our idea of heaven.

You can put it up in neon

or carry it on a sign,

just as long as people know,

the end is nigh.

It governed your vote for president,

how much you long for His return.

It’s had something to do with everything,

from who you married to the way you spurn

your gay relative, and how you discern

what to like on Facebook, and what to turn

away. I must admit I’m winging it, on Judgement Day.

Listening to Leonard Cohen sing “Take this

Longing,” of course I go right on to “Dance Me

to the End of Love,” then to “Hallelujah.” I could

stay with him all day, and well into the night, but

duty calls. Now he’s singing “There Ain’t No Cure

for Love.” YouTube can grab hold and never

let go, but for me it’s got nothing to do with yearning.

It’s the music, and the poetry, and as long as you’re gone,

I must admit I don’t miss you as much as I want to hear the next song.

Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water