CL Bledsoe- Three Poems

Bio: CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

Learning to Play Politics

The anarchists never got

anything done. They just sat

around arguing theory.

Sometimes, a few would splinter

off and march on the mall to

show how mad they were about

malls. Afterward, they’d all bitch

that no one was arrested

so it didn’t really count.

The communists had the best

rallies because they ordered

enough pizza for all to share,

so I joined them. We played

May Day each year in the amphitheater

where the Greeks liked to drink.

I didn’t trust the smiles on

the republicans’ faces

or the democrats’ soft hands.

They could afford bands people

knew for their shows, anyway.

He Never Bothered Me Again

 

Cece Frankenstein was the oldest girl                 

on the bus. My sister’s friend, every day

she’d say hi, but embarrassed by her blond

 

hair and pretty smile, I’d mumble nothing

as she walked away. Bobby Parsons and some boys

cornered me when she’d disappeared down

 

the long walk to her house on the edge of my family’s

land. “What are you doing talking to Cece?” Bobby

asked. He challenged me to a fight and didn’t

 

show but told the other kids on the bus it was me

who wimped out. Every day, when Cece was out

of sight, they’d follow me, shoving and picking,

 

until one afternoon I finally turned, kicked Bobby hard

between the legs. He went down, and the others

scattered. His eyes closed and he didn’t even moan.

 

I cut and ran for the Fish Shack, in tears, thinking

I’d killed him. My brother asked if I’d been

in a fight, and all I could say was, “Sort of.”

Nights Were Long

 

You drove gravel roads, barely paved single lanes, long

forgotten highways that were more pothole than asphalt,

drinking double-deuces, smoking whatever you could

find. Prescription meds stolen from geriatric relatives

could be crushed and snorted. If you could afford meth,

you could smoke it off aluminum foil if you remembered

to burn the coating off first. Booze and weed

were usually available. If nothing else, you could steal

half-a-dozen cans of potpourri from Wal Mart and huff

them through a towel. Otherwise, it was church eight

days a week, dropping out of high school to farm

or work a factory that would close in a couple years

anyway. You weren’t wasting your time; you were

looking for love at the end of an emptied-out pen,

the bottom of a beer can with holes punched through

the side and a carburetor poked in the bottom so you

could smoke when you didn’t have papers.