The Accident
Why hadn’t I noticed it before,
the protrusion below his shoulder?
My fingers press into the nub,
move up and down over the raised bone,
my palm grazing the spot above his heart.
His collarbone had given way long ago
after a drunken night in the valley,
when he’d pedaled his bike into a parked car.
We’d been together for a while,
but this was new to me.
The bone had taken three months to heal.
He’d slept propped up, immobilized
on a recliner in his parents’ television room,
sweating out the summer.
His mother had sliced strips of stick deodorant
with a worn-out knife, and carefully pressed them
into the ripe space between arm and body,
into the dampness of skin and hair.
I know his body, know what it does to mine,
and in his small bed my fingers grasp
this bit of helplessness.
He told me how, after the accident,
he’d wake in the night delirious
from the pain and drugs,
and sense he’d been babbling, crying.
Could still feel his mouth moving,
could taste the words still wild on his lips.
the protrusion below his shoulder?
My fingers press into the nub,
move up and down over the raised bone,
my palm grazing the spot above his heart.
His collarbone had given way long ago
after a drunken night in the valley,
when he’d pedaled his bike into a parked car.
We’d been together for a while,
but this was new to me.
The bone had taken three months to heal.
He’d slept propped up, immobilized
on a recliner in his parents’ television room,
sweating out the summer.
His mother had sliced strips of stick deodorant
with a worn-out knife, and carefully pressed them
into the ripe space between arm and body,
into the dampness of skin and hair.
I know his body, know what it does to mine,
and in his small bed my fingers grasp
this bit of helplessness.
He told me how, after the accident,
he’d wake in the night delirious
from the pain and drugs,
and sense he’d been babbling, crying.
Could still feel his mouth moving,
could taste the words still wild on his lips.
The Farmhouse
Give it new life, I thought,
the wrecked house, the apple orchard.
Camped on the edge of the property,
I’d wrapped myself in a wool blanket.
Deer hoofed through the thick field,
snapped fallen limbs
a few yards from where I slept.
Down the road lived a goat
named Festus, and when we met
I stared into his orange eyes.
His shelter was pitiful,
a small plastic dome
he ducked into when it rained.
Soon after, the house was mine.
Neighbors turned out with pies
and advice, and fresh eggs laid
by geese and bantam hens.
I tried to eat everything
before it spoiled. Cleared the brush,
peeled back layers of neglect,
while Festus stayed chained
to a metal spike in the ground,
walking in circles, wearing down
the frozen grass to bare mud.
the wrecked house, the apple orchard.
Camped on the edge of the property,
I’d wrapped myself in a wool blanket.
Deer hoofed through the thick field,
snapped fallen limbs
a few yards from where I slept.
Down the road lived a goat
named Festus, and when we met
I stared into his orange eyes.
His shelter was pitiful,
a small plastic dome
he ducked into when it rained.
Soon after, the house was mine.
Neighbors turned out with pies
and advice, and fresh eggs laid
by geese and bantam hens.
I tried to eat everything
before it spoiled. Cleared the brush,
peeled back layers of neglect,
while Festus stayed chained
to a metal spike in the ground,
walking in circles, wearing down
the frozen grass to bare mud.
Final Day
Even in August, a chill.
Boxes stacked on the painted pine floor.
Sheets pulled over the wingbacks, the sofa.
The door closed after letting in the last
of the room’s good air.
Years ago I burned here.
Brought him into the near dark.
Held his hands while he breathed in my hair,
passed it between his lips.
A Wyeth print hangs on the wall now,
farmers scything the fields,
a late-summer mowing. It means
almost nothing, you know how it is,
the image passed into scenery,
or shadows, years ago.
But here, once, he held me,
his arms around my body, my arms
reflecting his own, linked to him.
It seemed that we were endless.
On this, the last night of summer,
I sleep on a cot next to an open screen
and am soaked by the night rain.
Boxes stacked on the painted pine floor.
Sheets pulled over the wingbacks, the sofa.
The door closed after letting in the last
of the room’s good air.
Years ago I burned here.
Brought him into the near dark.
Held his hands while he breathed in my hair,
passed it between his lips.
A Wyeth print hangs on the wall now,
farmers scything the fields,
a late-summer mowing. It means
almost nothing, you know how it is,
the image passed into scenery,
or shadows, years ago.
But here, once, he held me,
his arms around my body, my arms
reflecting his own, linked to him.
It seemed that we were endless.
On this, the last night of summer,
I sleep on a cot next to an open screen
and am soaked by the night rain.
|
Kellam Ayres’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in New England Review, Guernica, The Cortland Review, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. She was recently awarded a Vermont Arts Council Creation Grant in support of her first manuscript. She’s a graduate of both the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers and the Bread Loaf School of English. She works for the Middlebury College Library and lives with her family in rural Vermont.
|
