|
 W.F.Roby
Twenty-six Words for Snow O Eskimo Pie, O confection frozen
stiff to the wall of the freezer, O vanilla,
O chocolate coat, O foil sleeve you fit inside --
home is where the heart hits the asphalt
my dear, my cold misnomer. In summer
you leave your color on my hands,
you paint the needy grass with tar.
Here is a letter I’ve written to you
and washed of ink, and slipped into
the Gulf of Mexico. Here is a photo of us
caught between noon and the second hand.
I am stuck ankle deep in sand the color of ash --
you are learning the name of the heat,
you are writing it down.
We lie on our backs in a haystack,
you with your pinched face, eyes tight,
your mouth frozen in a perfect O – and I
welcome you to the cave of the Oracle. Where
we turn the gas way up. You are my golden ball,
the thing I forget in sleep but remember
with fondness in the morning, saying “O she certainly does shine.”
Es-ki-mo pie, I fold your foil jacket into words, I hold
each syllable in the palm of my hand
like a train ticket or a promise from a friend.
I've given up the smoking, mon petit chou,
chased it off the front porch. All for you. My Eskimo Pie -- in a dream we got married
down South. We walked hand to stick
from cabana to dark swamp
where dry sticks caught a pile of sparklers,
where sparklers wrestled with smoky coals,
where coals sent fire trailing back towards
the wood panel of your dad's old wagon.
When I woke up, you were pinched between
two chipped fingernails, a girl in a cowgirl suit
with chocolate on her lips. She thought
she'd sneak into the races, find a boy on a horse maybe
could drive her back to Loose-e-ana to see
the hurricane kick and the bayou kick back. O Eskimo Pie -- sometimes when I say your name
I feel my heartbeat in my thigh. Other times
it’s just an incoming call or
the words in red in the family Bible
buzzing through the dead leather. Inside the freezer
where you rest in a hunch
someone nailed shelves at precise heights
for the hand of a child to switch on the lights,
neon, fluorescent and a third light incandescent
taped to the wall for precision. Tonight
let’s walk upwind. I’ll try to remember what Whitman says
about the Learn'd Astronomer with his charts and graphs --
I think it goes like this. Bio:
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
W.F. Roby is a poet and playwright living in New Mexico. His poems have appeared at Stirring, Karawane, Melic Review, and others. He recently took third place in Dustin Brookshire's "Project Verse", in which this poem originally appeared. *Yareah magazine es una revista cultural fundada y dirigida por el escritor Martín Cid: http://www.martincid.com
**Created and edited by the writer Martin Cid:
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Trackback(0)
 |
TrackBack URI for this entry
Subscribe to this comment's feed
Pincha Aquí para Descargar la Revista Completa en PDF 
a faculty member. One day in a crowded elevator, gucci handbags someone remarked on its inefficiency. I said the elevators had not changed
in the 20 years since I began there as a student.