Michael Allyn Wells

Sis

she is my sister
though I seldom speak of her

we grew up apart
in the same household

she did things
I never could

ate beetles
like crunchy granola

trained brown recluse
spiders to be more sociable

shot the dark sides
of everything in photographs

drove a locomotive
off an acrylic painting

when she swore in German
dogs followed at her heels

Give Me Some Everyday Religion

Dearest dealer,
I with my royal straight flush,
love you for your wild card,
that untamable, eternal, gut-driven ha-ha
and lucky love. – Anne Sexton

So esoteric, you
accommodate me at times,
without foundation.

That I should roll snake-eyes
or pick a winning number
with no grounds and not a thank you
for my part to be the blest bastard. But then,

to be trumped by every stop-light,
or fathom a turn of hard-luck so
lethal, I squirm in the puddles of
self-pity and moan of the great
injustices of this world like I understand
it all so well. Ha!

Deal me in… I say.
Let me play with the big boys.
Let me smoke my luck and drink my advantage
like my supply of chips at the bank is unending.
Are you looking over my shoulder God?

[An ekphrastic poem based on the painting The Red Roofs, Marc Chagall, 1954] Click for larger view.

Visions in Red

In the night of my many sighs
I see the roofs of our village
rushing with red.

I sit along the way
pretending not
to see my wedding day
this way.

I am both in my own view
but along the way as well,
my bouquet in hand

but I smell nothing
though the taste of copper
is strong in the air
like I'm sucking on coins.

My groom stands over us all
and ladles the blood of every Passover
on us all - even the Jew we call the Christ.

I am clothed and yet nakedly vulnerable
before my groom, before God,
before the whole of the town.

File Folder

It crept across my desk
during the day
flopped on the floor
defied my hands once
surrendered
then in contumacy
sliced
and drew blood
for that I filed it away
in the dark file cabinet
under “S” for stay

Michael Allyn Wells' profile

We Missed

An ivory cup,
with remnants of black coffee
and a rich brown ring,
sat alone,
stone cold,
to say
you came,
stayed,
then left.
I'm sorry.

Tiananmen Mother
~for Zhao Ziyang

The Beijing breeze whispers
mournful strophes.
Tears like the mountain rains
follow slopes

to tributaries until they become one
with the rippling waters of the Yangtze.

I am a Tiananmen mother.
My eyes have swelled
with this sadness before.
The wetness follows a path
well rehearsed.
My nights are immense.
I am,, but a lone bare branch
in a cold dark world.

They replicate
that June night
etched in my soul
over and over.

My son stood
in the square
armed only
with a vision
and they came--
The People’s Army.

My son stood
in Tiananmen Square,
amid a sea of other
sons and daughters
and they came--

armored tanks
clanking along the streets into Tiananmen
driven by fear, ordered by paranoia.

Our sons and daughters
toppled to the earth
at their hands.
Crimson crawling into every crevice
of these ancient Chinese streets;
a stain still upon us today.

I cannot count the nights
I have wept for my son since.
Today, I weep for another.

There is no official news
but the Beijing breeze whispers again,
this time for the death of the old man.
There are guards outside my door.
The lump in my throat is big,
I cannot begin to swallow.
That is how I know the truth.

Guilt always gnawing at my heart.
I could not help my son that June night.
Again as I am helpless.

I want to pay my respects
to the old man who stood up
for my son and others
massacred in Tiananmen,
but the thugs watch
my every move.

I am a Tiananmen mother.
It is my duty to weep
for the lost ones.

Foxtrot

The miles between us are narrow ruled
I can't count the times we've tripped
over those same one syllable words

you the progressive one
me the traditionalist
trying to attain proximity

without over indulgence
without red flags
without precociousness

we dance around well enough
without the steps we most admire
too close for comfort
too distant to satisfy