John Wells -Three Poems

Conejo

Tonight I heard the death

scream of conejo.

Her cries for help

spanned a frozen field.

My heart quickened.

It felt safe to sleep here-- warm,

far from coyotes, fox, and fisher cats.

I had thought of conejo

as a silent animal.

But she screams, she pleads,

she does have a voice.

Over the Falls

Once again I go over the falls

in a cascade of chaos,

pulled down by thirst

and a weak will.

This time it feels right,

deserved, desired.

My years of glimpsing the brink

have not soothed my soul

or allayed my fears.

All of this mess spills over.

An angry maelstrom

blends it together--

all the drunken nights,

the women I couldn’t love

and those who couldn’t love me,

the dogs and boats and trucks I lost,

the parents who couldn’t see me.

I wish I had never seen them.

Withdrawing

I still remember that moment

when you noticed my anguish.

I was in so much pain that day.

I tried to hide it but my weakness

spoke clearly to you

as well as my resolve.

The restaurant was spinning.

Voices cackled like a murder of crows.

My ears filled with painful voices--

“Happy Easter” “I love you,”

“so glad we could get together,”

all uttered through plastic smiles,

masked in a veil of cologne and kitchen smells.

You noticed the sweat beading up on my forearms

until I subtly wiped them dry under the table.

You took note, unlike the familiar strangers across from us.

As I attempted to reach for my glass of water,

placed carefully by wait staff on a mustard colored linen,

I realized we could debate its color all day.

I know few things about life.

I know less about how to be a good husband.

I do know that when you saw me reach for that glass

with both hands shaking wildly,

the sweat on my arms,

you allowed me my dignity.

No one noticed but you

and in the chaotic dance of restaurant noise

you softly touched my arm and whispered

I’m so proud of you, baby.

In that moment the banter, the chatter,

the endless noise was sucked into a vacuum.

I still thank you for that.

John Wells began writing fiction years ago and has turned more to poetry with age.  He is a sailor and carpenter who has been too long from the sea.  He lives in Concord, MA.