Kelley Jean White- Three Poems

Alcoholics Are So Generous

 

You say Walter’s sick. Very sick. I think flu.

Sniffles. Under. The weather. You say fluid,

gallons, drained from his abdomen.

I can’t imagine him bloated. That wiry hard

friendly body—always calling out

greetings, a dog bone hidden

in his fist. Oh, he might have been a brawler

Once. Tattoo on his forearm before they were

fashionable. And a genuine biker. He’d give

you the shirt off his back. He’d scratch

your back even if you didn’t scratch his. Scratch

your palm with cash if you needed it. And he

needed it. Always laughing. He’s younger

than he looks. Younger than a man with that kind

of record. Now he’s napping. Worn. Older than

me, but just barely. And broke. He’s given everything

to his children. Can’t afford an obituary. We’re gonna

take up a collection to pay for his funeral.

 

 

 

Bardos

 

1.  Mirage

     store clerk saw unidentified man leave store

     with unpaid for merchandise and flee

 

2.  Smoke

     one ring missing from drawer

     no sign of forced entry

 

3.  Fireflies

     complainant hit by rock thrown at him by

     another person

 

4.  Flame of a Candle

     suspect arrested for allegedly stealing DVD

     player from store

 

5.  Vivid White Sky-mind

     refrigerator missing from building

 

6.  Vivid Red or Orange Sky-mind

     refrigerator and six window shades

     missing from building

 

7.  Vivid Black Sky-Mind

     1988 Buick Century stolen

 

8.  Clear Light

     1990 BMW stolen with briefcase inside      

 

 

 

Below Ground

 

It is not a room.

It imitates a house with walls and cement but there is no skin of life.

I lean against cement and watch the washingmachine shudder.

My father’s drill silent and hulking.

The circular saw terrifying in its stillness.

My baby food jars have been made into racks filled with nails and screws of various sizes.

The workbench, its red paint spattered stool.

The sump pump chugging cool in the corner.

What lives in the cobwebbed rafters? Dust hidden below the house my mother kept spot clean.

What else is hidden? The heavy doors of the cedar closet, coats bulking inside.

I have come to sit here in the moving circle of the single dangling bulb.

My father may be dying in another city.

I have never been left home alone.

I am alone.

I have entered this imitation of home.