poetryrepairs 15,01:007

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON : Dead Grey Wolf Skins
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON : If You Find No Poem (V2)
MARY HAMRICK : Ginetta's Secret

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Dead Grey Wolf Skins

(Tribute: Aldo Leopold)
Dead grey wolf skins hang on white clotheslines across Baraboo, Wisconsin the dark surface, side of the moon, that only exists in memories hung high, long before. Hunters in the past did their job well, sold skins, collected a few bucks, increased deer for hunting, saved cattle, decreased fear, told tales, short stories, adventures. The grey wolf face now emergent, opens his mouth wide in the safety open in blue sky. Shows his white teeth against background of black sky, shadow, hears thunder again, releases fireflies at night, monarch butterflies during the day, guts down pine tree spikes. He walks once again over landscapes of turquoises. He consumes dirt road dust, 119 miles to Milwaukee. His keen eyes are sharp for growth of skyscraper, Pabst Building. Traveling side roads over many years brings him to the present. No more violators, hunters with guns, fake Jesus people slender in His bathrobe Christ repeats two fishes, 5 loaves. Aldo Leopold feeding inmate in small jail cells, only kills a few for research. Aldo a Saint of conservation a consumer of cigarettes and butts, heart wings of doves attached, broken, stroke fire, a neighbor field heart stroke drops into history.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:007

If You Find No Poem (V2)

If you find no poem on your doorstep in the morning, no paper, no knock on your door, your life poorly edited but no broken dashes or injured meter you do not wear white satin dresses late in life embroidered with violet flowers on the collar; nor do you have burials daily across main street, no one whispers in your ear, Emily Dickinson- you feel alone- but not reclusive- the sand child still sleeping in your eyes- wiping your tears away- if you find no poem on your doorstep- you know you are not from New England.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:007

Ginetta's Secret

Stan swats his girl five shades lighter than blueberries. His secret history--a shameful thing. Sometimes my lips swell like Brazilian cherries and I swivel away from him. I swivel toward him, burnt useless under his gaze. And sometimes by 1 a.m., he's whittling notches onto this tropical body, so I come ?round to his way: his drive, his wish, his craving. Nasty blood vessels pop on his forehead-- must I beg again? My body is a quiet room of imperfection: strip off the skin and look for yourself! Late morning, Momma visits and says, Ginetta, you have dark silent-movie eyes that sing ballads of last night. Huddled by the kitchen table kneading flour into dough-- my womb is exposed on a long, powdered table. Fingers pinching as they crush, lift, slam?vigoroso. Tired limbs slip downward onto a chair, a chair all-knowing and full of devil details. Momma sits like a man, her long cotton dress is open-wide, her floured dusty apron reeks of pungent citrus fragrance. Let's see, Momma--how can I describe pain? My small mistakes will resurrect hands that knuckle the body sticky-sweet. Old woman, let me tell you the secrets of each night that shies and smalls a woman. . . . and after the evening meal, he will holler, lay down. Whey-faced, I will smell like almond milk; my lips will swell like Brazilian cherries as I slide in place under the slope of Stan's bony framework.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:007

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