Water Sign

artwork: ralph murre

Water Sign

by Margaret Hasse

Two-year-old Charlie loves water,

loves the force of water 

in gutters, pipes, the second hose

bought to keep peace between brothers

who spray tomatoes with the intensity

of fire fighters at a five alarm fire,

loves the sources of water:

faucet, penis, rain, spit.

He longs like a pilgrim for wet places

where his worship is

complete submersion:

bathtub, swim pool, lake.

To praise water,

he secludes himself in the bathroom.

Ascending a stepping stool to the sink,

he opens valves to an endless rush

of new pressure in copper pipes.

So much water, why not share it?

Give it away until it seeps

through the floorboards,

showers into the kitchen,

fills the bowls on the table,

flows on the heads

of his amazed mother and brother

who do not immediately recognize

that grace might descend like this –

inconveniently –

from a complete enthusiast

who needs to be forgiven

for being generous

with whatever he loves.

~ previously published in Milk and Tides (Nodin Press)

TRUANT

digital photoart: ralph murre

TRUANT

by Margaret Hasse

Our high school principal wagged his finger

over two manila folders

lying on his desk, labeled with our names––

my boyfriend and me––

called to his office for skipping school.

The day before, we ditched Latin and world history

to chase shadows of clouds on a motorcycle.

We roared down empty rural roads

through the Missouri River bottoms beyond town,

wind teasing the hair on our bare heads

emptied of review tests and future plans.

We stopped on a dirt road to hear

a meadowlark’s skittish song and smell

heart-break blossom of wild plum.

Beyond leaning fence posts and barbwire,

a tractor drew straight lines across the field

unfurling its cape of blackbirds.

Now fifty years after that geography lesson

of spring, I remember the words

of the principal, how right he was in saying:

This will become part

of your permanent record.

~ from Earth’s Appetite (Nodin Press)

Bean Fields

artwork: ralph murre

Bean Fields

by Margaret Hasse

They labor along the straight lines

of parallel rows, the farm boy, the town girl

earning an hourly wage for her college fund,

weeding, staying even with each other,

loving like crazy each other’s smell.

He has the slight acrid burn of green leaves.

She, catmint––residue of shampoo––

her hair streaked shades of brown

like foxtail grasses in the sun.

His Tom body yowls in the backyard

of his brain that he wants that minty weed.                                   

She longs for the end of the row                                          

when they will sit in the bed of a dirty truck

against warm rubber tires and drink

lemonade with tongues so keen

you could map the exact spot where

the sugar of desire does its dream business,

where the lemon pulp—call it

her education plan, his religious training—

persists in its tart denial.

A bean in its ripe casing hangs on a stem,      

three fuzzy lumps in its throat. One for the boy,

one for the girl, and one for how the hinge

of what might happen to them swings slightly,

opening here, closing there.

~ first published in The Talking of Hands (New Rivers Press)

Blood Oranges

digitally re-imagined from photo found on-line

Blood Oranges

by Margaret Hasse

A woman came on board the bus today

carrying blood oranges in a string bag,

her lips like red cuffs on the sleeve of her throat.

People in heavy coats sit like spools of black and blue,

the shock of a Monday workday freezing our morning faces.

I envy her, wrapped in a woven shawl like a choir of crayons.

For months, I’ve tried to pull my heart up,

a stone from the well of disappointment.

Standing, she flirts with the driver in a language

that clicks like knitting needles.

Her voice filling the aisle could melt the blue slush on the floor mats.

Laughter opens her mouth to a diva’s O plucking a high C.

Down the aisle she floats by our plastic pews.

As if happiness has a hand on her breast, as if happiness

is taking her body apart in pieces of dazzled joy.

She is rickrack on a funeral dress,

a peacock’s tail fanned against a gray wall,

a handful of bright corn to feed the birds.

She smiles with a candle’s flame that doesn’t fade when it lights another.

The sun shoots golden arrows through the dirt-pocked windows.

Stopping the bus with a tug on the white cord,

I exit the accordion doors to a walkway through the snow.

~ previously published in Earth’s Appetite (Nodin Press)