John Blair
Superman ☊In a green ski jacket and red earband
I dribble the basketball on concrete cracks. My numb ungloved hands slap slap cold leather resuscitating stale air inside. I shoot the ball… elongated in light shadows, it streaks toward night. Dad drives home in his two-tone green Chevrolet Belair 1955 with a silver-wing hood ornament and brilliant high-beam headlights that rake the dark and shoo cats into alley crevices. I pull up the garage door and watch him maneuver through the small opening with astonishing ease he discards the day’s residue newspapers, telephone messages, cigarette butts. Hi son, he acknowledges breezily motions with his hands for the ball and dribbles three times. As he jumps, his dark gray topcoat flows like a cape and the swirling blue ball elegantly swishes through strings. Tomatoes
…the tomato is a persnickety being – Julia Child
She brushes her ripeness against my excited scapula. I savor brussel sprouts bathing in butter broccoli flowers lounging under cheese sauce. In a mirrored restaurant delicate avocado soufflé multiplies infinitely. I relish nubile green beans marinated with basil and onion, potatoes lolling in cream sauce showing-off to early peas. At the movie, she lays her head on my shoulder hair fragrant like dark rich loam spills down my bare arm tickles honeyed skin cinnamons my cranberries. As I drive home her hand kneads raspberries overflowing with morning dew. Pie cherries pucker… but I eat crushed tomatoes clinging to limp pasta. Going out with Daddy Smell
Hair still damp
no more tears Saturday night bath blue flowered sofa white flannel pajamas blue boys fishing Grandma sewed. Turn well-thumbed astronomy pages when Pluto was a planet Daddy wears dark blue church suit shimmering blue tie Mommy from their bedroom, no glasses hair brushed soft, face smooth like an egg shell warm red lips. Be good, she whispers Smiles, leans down kisses my cheek peppermint, cloves cinnamon… jazzed gardenia that going out with Daddy smell |
Cowgirl Cinnamon Rolls
Margaret, you stoke the cook stove
fragrant pine kindling, radiant tinder shiny black coal I saddle the wheeled bier with your plain pine casket and remember cowgirl cinnamon rolls you hold out your palms olive face unwrinkled dark eyes serene your breath crimson, your hair an ebony streaked gray cascading down your back the well-brushed sheen shares vermilion hues with sunrise hand fans from mortician’s plump wife flutter like roped butterflies warm milk dawns pink mixed with flour, you push down and knead my turn to pull, fold, flatten it feels alive, fluid purring sweaty mourners battle unbridled sobs together we sprinkle sugared raisins roll the long end find a thread to cut rounds a winged white Cadillac moseys lariat curves you lead us to the cemetery yeast and cinnamon begged from the oven warm and sticky rolls where patiently you linger briefly Resonance
Grandma Clara lives, a tintype incarnate
same round face, faint lavender scent resemblance remarkable like a glance through Grandpa’s eyes Diane’s dark brown curls blush cheeks irrestible Grandmother? short, gray, chaste… we stroll on unexpected streets hold hands, kick vermilion leaves eager for intimacy, but… Unrequited
It starts in your gut
a warm spring rum welling up varnishes every fiber, every cell glossy drizzles distill to a fine clear amber Paula in a maroon turtleneck, white skirt oxblood boots polished and gleaming her copper hair alight from inside elegant blue eyes invite amazement. I crave those plain natural words… Good night in lush tones, smooth eloquent aged bourbon. Instead of dousing my bright high her unavailability ignites brandy. |
