Poetry
Apology
My old man steps over to this worn-out
Datsun pickup I’m working on,
leans an arm onto the windshield, says:
It was how Dad done us: He was tough.
I look up. The old man’s a battler. Scarred bald
head, result of an fuel tank fire; blind in one eye,
crippled by arthritis; high blood pressure flush.
A battler struggling to hang on.
He continues:
He used to be real hard on us, call you
every name in the book, make fun of you,
make you feel like you was stupid,
not worth anything.
So I never learned how to teach you boys
the right way. I couldn’t –
He shakes his head, steps away.
On the glass:
oil smudge where his hand died.
W.K. Stratton
Now Thinking Like a Mountain, I Sense
there’s a storm somewhere.
The air reeks
of ozone and the mountains
vibrate as if they’re at war
with the invading clouds.
Enough to scatter
the wall-and-stone critters
as well as the winter-preparing ants
who’ve hurried their dry seeds
across the patio since dawn.
Only an old praying mantis remains
hanging onto the window screen,
twisting one broken antenae,
like a B-movie alien who’s
hoping to pick up
a rescuing signal,
before he makes his next move.
The incoming raindrops explode,
shattering the ant trail
while the mantis shakes
then inches under a honeysuckle.
The storm subsides; the desert mountain quiets.
Later I go out into the night sky
filled with stars I haven’t seen since childhood
when they competed only with fireflies
before they began to die from too much light.
George Bristol
22
Cenizo
Fourth Quarter 2011