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NANCY MITCHELL Holythe holly tree, its leaves prickly sheen, holy the husband jangling his keys, holy the thud of wood upon wood, wind worrying water from shore to pond shore, holy the equivocator's decision to lie, holy the mechanic whose dog has died, pine boughs intertwined with the pin oak's vine, holy the leaky row boat's green algae growth, lashed to the dock with a fraying rope holy the hill, the canoe belly up. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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GERALD PARKS Near Walker ParkIn this bay near Walker Park my father used to dig, with age-torn hands, for butter clams in the mud. He seized only sand. In the distance, ducks quack and flap, and further off, saws turn and chew. My father, old and new, stands bent at dusk and listens to the tide. I see his shadow walking on the water, longer and longer in a lengthening stride. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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 GERALD PARKS writes from his base in northeastern Italy near the Carnian Alps and the Adriatic Sea. Grand places are also part of his poetry. | 06.04: 041 page navigation
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NANCY MITCHELL Before YouI too, slept with him in that very house, but not as you did in what was once his parent's bed, before his mother's Alzheimer's set in, seven years at least before she died in the nursing home where, later his father went, in his nineties, played cabaret on the organ, happy, though deaf. We slept in the guest room, across the hall in a smaller bed, pushed so far that when I turned my back to him, my face was my hand's width from the wall. The same room, where ten-not-speaking years later, he sent me to fetch the quilted sewing kit, you mention, modestly sprinkled with a blue forget-me-not print ; I plucked a needle from a red pin cushion, wrapped and snapped enough white thread around my fore finger to sew a button to his pants while he pegged cribbage with his father in the dining room where, you write, you danced with him, the least frightening room in the house. But did you see the clock, its brass spiked rays splayed two feet long across the wall from its saucer- sized face? He gave you a spindle of maybe the same white thread as a keepsake from his mother, whom you'd never met. He gave me her aluminum thimble. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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