Two Poems
The Alchemist
Through the frayed curtains.
Beyond them, the beach town reminds me of the
back-lot in a Hollywood movie. And the letter sits
on the desk 45 years old and recently divorced. I
never ordered the pizza either that's later delivered,
strapped to a gurney with squeaky wheels. But I
am the one who dislikes flip-flops and never drinks
cola. I also recall the last time I shaved
my father. It was a month after his stroke and he
was completely helpless. Spittle ran down the right
side of his chin as thick patches of hair grow out of
his ears. I trimmed the ear hair. I think of mother
sometimes too, but he is unable to. Would you mind
if I change the subject? I forgot what I wanted to
say. Oh right, and the resort is almost deserted this
late in the season. And wind blows clouds by at an
alarming speed. And the only thing I'm sure of is
that somewhere on this unpredictable planet, an
elephant will escape from a zoo and head straight
for a bar where it will eat salted peanuts while
sitting, with his gray trunk on the table, in the very
back booth near the restrooms.
Soufflé, Mink Malt, Climbing Pouch-Ward
Some poems can read themselves.
But more often than not, words walk in the woods and
never once stop to turn over a rotten log. Lines
appear snotlike and pale but somehow
know how to crawl. If stanzas had
a mouth they would speak
broken English and
drool when
they
sleep. Each
metaphor would know
exactly which fire escape
to use and refuse to carry an
umbrella at the first sign of rain.
They would make angels in the wet
snow and think nothing of using hay to
stuff pillowcases. What else? O yeah, ideas
would volunteer to remind listeners that poetic
humor should never be mistaken for a princess phone,
unless it rings. Then sometime later that same
evening, flash bulbs secretly Morse Code the
appropriate signals to a starving galaxy,
living on tiny rations of dark matter.—Maurice Oliver, Portland, OR
