artwork: ralph murre
by
John Flynn
Within
the shaggy cottonwood yard
A
lengthened sun-drenched patch of sod was found
And
planted with white wooden posts
Whose
grounded ends were dipped and stuck
With
creosote borrowed from the railroad.
Crossbars
were notched and set upon the tops.
Stretched
between, the wires—
new and blued,
without the curls and
kinks that age
and almost daily
use would bring—
Bobbed
and hummed
And
gave the sun
New
tracks for it
To
run upon.
Each
weeksworth of childhood’s dirt
Was
worried out in a swollen tub
Whose
agitator pounded time
Like
a galley master gone berserk.
Detergent
surged across the rim
And
dabbled down enamelled sides.
A
willing child’s imaginings could rampage
Through
this hydrophobic scene,
Witness
as the squinch-browed troll
Staggered
stiffly through its death throes
And
spurted soiled water through its nose.
Bed
sheets hung with wooden pins
And
slung from separate lines
Bloomed
as the summer wind
Swooped
between the pinioned sides.
From
the porch the washline
Rigged
out in bedclothes
Looked
for all the world a ship
From
some exotic myth
Floating
flatly on a grass green sea.
To the boy, strolling lightly
On
her spongy decks,
The
dampened slabs of sail
Soothed
and caressed him
And
coddled dreams.
During
one such topside stroll,
Sailing
off a southern shore
He’d
one day recognize,
He
shouted greetings to a new bird
Borne
from a sea-side cliff.
He
watched aghast
The
callow, sentient heart
On
stiffened wings
Drill
smaller circles in the calid sky
And
failing, merge into the pageantry.
Lifesworth
of family’s laundered clothes
Dripped
dry and bleached
Beneath
the prairie sun;
And
greened coarse grass and softened it
So
in the dark barefoot you still could tell
Just
where you were and raising arm
Catch
up and follow to the end.
Then
use the washline’s weathered bars
To
hang upon and tease the stars.
~
previously published in Cottonwood Yard
