Picaroon Poetry - Issue #4 - September 2016

Issue #4
September 2016
Edited by Kate Garrett
All poems copyright © 2016 individual authors
Selection/issue copyright © 2016 Kate Garrett

This Month’s Rogue Poems ● September 2016
A History Lesson on Salem, Massachusetts, 1692
Nancy Iannucci
Aspirin and Guns
Cathryn Shea
How to Make a Halo
Kevin Casey
Sadie
Jeffrey Kingman
Still, It’s Nice to be Kissed
Ricky Garni
The Lost Olive
Paul Vaughan
The highway code
Andie Berryman
Pigeon English
Caroline Hardaker
The Etiquette of Loss
Maurice Devitt
In the local bathroom mirror
Daniel Roy Connelly
Passing the Yeames Test
Al McClimens
In My Lover’s Womb
Grant Tarbard
Uprooted
Meygan Cox
Thetford Forest
Anna Percy

The Visitor
Matt Duggan
The Hands that I Loved
Lizzie Holden
A whole lot of horse tranquilizers
Holly Magill
Manangaal
Evie Worrall
To Rust
Justin Hilliard
They are Voting in Lesbos
Antony Owen
Esprit de Corps
Larry D. Thacker
For Thine Is
R.A. Clemens
To my baby who just learned how to walk
Lauren Suchenski
Making Chicken Stock on Day of the Dead
Amy Rea
A Letter to Auguste Rodin About the Thinker’s Privileges
Darren C. Demaree
A (Close) Call
Courtney Lavender

A History Lesson on Salem,
Massachusetts, 1692
Nancy Iannucci
I tell my classes this to jar their wits:
The howling started after the last hanging.
Sauntering spirits drifted in torment
climbing trees grasping at leaves;
they exhaled in reverse force, a microburst
that pushed saltboxes off foundations.
Foliage swirled to sod the skies in streams
of crushed crimson & sobbing rain.
Voices haunted every crack & sill in Salem Village.
The gale blew sustained by the force of each name:
John Proctor -- Susannah Martin – Mary Parker
Martha Cory -- Miles Cory -- Bridget Bishop
Rebecca Nurse -- Sarah Good -- Margret Scott
Wilmet Redd -- John Willard – Elizabeth How
Sarah Wildes – George Burroughs.
They were drawn to their accusers like possessions.
Rev. Parris opened windows to settle the tempest.
He watched each soul pass through roped
& bruised, wounds evident of their
restless innocence. He let them in
one by one, and they…
until that one slick student
interrupted me;
the one who stared cynically;
the one who lacked that
Cotton Mather mouthed
impatience for me to continue;
the one who wasn’t gazing stupefied
as though she had just witnessed
Minerva McGonagall emerge from a cat.
No. The Hermione know-it-all silenced
my authority like Hathorne:
But, Ms. I, that wasn’t in the reading last night.

Aspirin and Guns
Cathryn Shea
Every intelligent woman should become
familiar with the use of firearms. —Annie Oakley
Dawn gulps the moon like a desperate aspirin.
I’m woozy. The din of recycling, clank
of bins along the gutter. Engine dirge
like urban tinnitus.
Recycling is a sure sign
a civilization is on the verge
of collapse.
Ask the Aztecs.
My lovesick cousin toasts
the poster of Annie Oakley,
a mythic, sassy Ophelia
we didn’t study in high school.
If women were rifle-toting Annie Oakleys
in midi culottes with spats over boots,
we wouldn’t have climate change. Seems logical.
Would we have a climate to change?
Would anybody care about recycling?
One sure thing:
since Annie Oakley never drank,
there wouldn’t be any hangovers.

How to Make a Halo
Kevin Casey
1. Spin a broom at the sky to catch the flight
of swifts in loops of liquid silver.
2. Hammer out a pewter ring from a length
of smoke escaping a morning bonfire,
using a sunbeam as an anvil.
3. Steal the twenty-seventh year growth ring
from a lightning-struck sycamore tree.
4. Having pulled the darkness from a hole
four feet deep, cut off the very bottom
and roll up the sides to form a hoop.
5. Pare the rind of a manhole cover, then
seal the ends with a paste of dew and pollen.
6. With the whittled end of a cattail stem,
lift a ripple from an autumn pond
the night before its surface slows to ice.

Sadie
Jeffrey Kingman
Light cannot find you
behind canned spinach and soap flakes,
the boxtops
shout merrily merrily.
Hide in the purse and smell
Wrigley’s and powder, nervously
snapped open and closed
until your other has driven you home.
Sadie looking at you in the compact.
Down the hallway the study,
husband’s ropey neck—quickstep!
Ah, now steam and bubbles are way up, fogging
your browline glasses. Drain the sink,
rather slide the dishes into slippery mineral oil,
curve of the bowl.
Your ear to the cat for the full throttle,
pillowy belly, warm.
Stroke the harlequin pillowcase, bells
on the corners, conjuring
this morning’s sweater girl. Filene’s hat counter.
What did you
want to whisper soft?
Small enough to come inside your own pocketbook.

Still, It’s Nice to Be Kissed
Ricky Garni
They say kisses sweeter than wine but most wine – particularly
good red wine – let’s say from Burgundy – and now I am
thinking specifically of Domaine de La Romanee-Conti in
Vosne whose wines often more than five hundred dollars a
bottle and there is a very small supply available of these
wines every year in spite of the exorbitant price – is not at all
sweet, in fact, you might even call it earthy, loamy, with hints
of moss and black tea and tobacco leaf, or as the French
might succinctly suggest, of redolent terroir, quite delicious,
and dry.

The Lost Olive
Paul Vaughan
She lies awake,
she wonders why;
why she liked that he ate those olives
in that novel way she had never imagined
that made her squeak and wiggle
but the fun
stopped
when one just disappeared
just like that
and it may never come out -
perhaps a tree will grow?
He just sleeps and snores, of course,
but she still lies awake.

The highway code
Andie Berryman
The graffiti tells me what’s going on
ducks have four legs now,
your nan's a cunt,
and men at work swallow cum.
The stop sign
tells me to fuck off the other way
and the give way sign means
bisexuality is cool (for girls)
Amber means do want you want.

Pigeon English
Caroline Hardaker
Leave me with the palest grey pigeons.
They understand me with their
shaded backs and painted necks
iridescent green tattoo inks
puffed full throat and ragged collar
worn through every weather.
Like me, they’re out on the asphalt,
a lack of toes, fumbling for crumbs,
always pecking for the bit that doesn’t exist
and layered on grey
ingloriously blue, so blue.

The Etiquette of Loss
Maurice Devitt
When the milkman left
two cartons this morning,
I happened to be
looking out the window
noticed how he seemed
to linger for a minute,
take time to set them
in the corner of the porch,
as though, just at that moment,
his memory tripped
and his eye caught
the shadow of a blue tit,
waiting for the clink
of glass on the step.

The local bathroom mirror
Daniel Roy Connelly
The local calendar is set to the third
day of the first month of year fifty in
which it is written that a host of my
younger faces are to gather in the
local bathroom mirror which brags a
smattering of magic still, I will not lie.
Sure enough, they cluster round my
hairline as I shave, the younger ones
bemused by my actions, the
teenagers in awe of the blade. The
sun is lancing through the window, it
is almost clear to see but for the
steam that billows up from the
pristine porcelain sink. Every chin
from twenty-four on is scarred, I
note, the gums in the thirties mouths
recede, into the forties faces come
hollowed cheeks and tired eyes. Up
they rise to the reflected skylight,
one after the other my historic selves
coil away vaporously into a radiant
womb.

Passing the Yeames Test
Al McClimens
Hi, it said. Does this kid look like you?
A handwritten note posted from somewhere
I didn’t recognise either. There’s a photo
of a boy, or it might have been a girl,
long fair hair and jeans, I’m guessing boy,
taken in a patio area. A blue sun shade
waved hello from the edge of the shot. Six
or seven, maybe. Her reflection in a French
window. She taught school. We met at a party.
Brighton. Late seventies. And all the trimmings.
She left for Buenos Aires the next day. By six
that evening I’d forgotten her. Now, Does this kid
look like you? A date in faded pencil on the back.
The numbers don’t add up. And no, it looks happy.

In My Lover’s Womb
Grant Tarbard
1.
In my lover’s womb
I play her ribs like
A xylophone. We
Make music until
The roses wither.
2.
In my lover’s womb
I knew that I would
Have to clamber down
Out of her jelly,
Swaying crook morning.
3.
In my lover’s womb
She flowers inside
A crimson kiln, a
Roses firestone
Seeking the Sun’s flames.
4.
In my lover’s womb,
It is a place for
Making noises, hear
The breeze outside her
Lining of sunset.

5.
In my lover’s womb
Desire is a red
Dye of joy untold,
Cocooned in her shy
Blue November eyes.

Uprooted
Meygan Cox
We pull at weeds that have been gathering in the garden
for some time.
With the sun beaming down on us,
neither of us says a word.
We work on opposite sides, tugging at roots that refuse to release,
I want to ask you how your day was, but I stop myself.
You’ll just give me the same answer and I can’t handle
that right now.
In the middle of tangled weeds, I spot a robin’s egg—cracked.
Isn’t it beautiful? I ask. Put it down, you say. Bird’s eggs are filthy.
While you continue to pick dead flowers, I hold on to tomorrow.

Thetford Forest
Anna Percy
May and it is boiling
my partner for orienteering
has the map upside down
insists it is the right way up
as a result we are dead last
later the headmaster has to
find us on his mountain bike
the pine trees are very tall
at their height and concentration
they block out the sun for
large distances we are running
in shadows into clouds of fat
bodied may flies it is too hot
and the map is upside down
I am trying to enjoy being lost
the searing injustice of knowing
the map is upside down is filling
my eleven year old mind
at this age being away from adults
is thrilling we are so supervised
that any time to wander in
places that are green and feel safe
is welcome this day there are
thick clouds of fat bodied mayflies
that I have swallowed and
the map is upside down.

The Visitor
Matt Duggan
Come lay with me in the hayfields
among circles in yellow and stone,
stare at a sky with bright stars
like toasted crumbs on blue gingham,
we hide from the opening of rooms
the secrets disguised as lies;
undress the pretty heart inside
may the visitor never catch us.
Come lay with me in the hayfields
where the sun meets the day,
catch the dew dropping from mouths in spring
tasting the stolen fruit that lay beside me,
a love exhumed from an assassin’s sight
where nightingales whispered songs to the dead.
We were lost in each other’s limbs
hidden from the man with the favoured snout.

The Hands That I Loved
Lizzie Holden
I remember the roses
glossy on her silk knee.
Stocking feet in kitten heels.
The wrinkled hands I loved
smelling of her pink hand cream,
squeezing my waist,
holding me tight
so I wouldn’t wriggle,
so he could feel.

A whole lot of horse tranquilizers
Holly Magill
Who would do such a thing? people gasp,
One of God’s great creatures – it’s murder!
No one will tell what they do with Steve’s body;
would need an enormous hole to bury it,
like a crater on the moon.
There’s jokes about an almighty hog-roast,
only not a hog – I’m going vegetarian.
We don’t see The Ring Master for days;
empties fly from the windows of his trailer,
glass tears shatter on the hard-standing.
My ruined foot tingles. Wasn’t me
that did it – but I wish I had.
On the third evening, a portable CD player magics
up on his front step, blaring and distorted.
Nellie the elephant packed her trunk
and said goodbye…
In the folds of night across the way,
I press repeat on the remote
over and over.

Manangaal
Evie Worrall
You planted a rose bush in my stomach.
A Winter bud that furled itself inside,
sinewy twines stretched to line my skin
and replace my veins with
frosted gossamer webs.
The petals bloomed and collected;
blood red
wet stains in the snow
on my thighs
on the bathroom floor.
I planted lilies in my throat
to fill the empty silence.

To Rust
Justin Hilliard
decompose, breakdown
oxidation
destruction and degradation
steel pole
integral
holding up the framework of
an intricate garden of
tomatoes and strawberries
to rust
to dust
the pole gives in
slowly flakes in maroon blotches
to dust
weight gives in and
the pole gives way
framework with vines woven intricate,
fall. tomatoes tumble to the ground
and crush fertile strawberries
to dust

They are Voting in Lesbos
Antony Owen
I want to stay here in paradise and vote for bream and rice as
children shoot each other safely dying like pretend refugees. I
want to raise the runt that was tied to the leash of a mongrel
and walk it through the ferns and stare south to my homeland
and pray. I want to tell my nephew that his Mother and Father
were astronauts of water and live floating among the stars
that whales blow out to the sky. Oh my beautiful friends I have
had to vote for many things that would break your red little
ships and sink them in your chests. I have had to vote to
leave my daughter and place my faith in driftwood. I want to
stay here in paradise and watch my brothers boy dream and
tell him that sea monsters do not yell in Arabic to be saved. I
want to open this locket and tell my wife that the olives here
are bitter and how greek widows stand on towels to collect
them for the women. I want to vote for water tomorrow and
ask Jurgen why he wears a Leicester top when last year he
supported United. I want you to hear how children here pass a
football, my turn, your turn, my turn your turn, my turn, my turn
my turn, my turn.

Esprit de Corps
Larry D. Thacker
“No live plants,” ought to have told us something was up.
“No more than two personal framed photos,” was another clue,
along with never opening our windows or adjusting the air.
And when we all were instructed to come to the pot luck,
lined up alphabetically, holding our assigned food dishes,
only allowed in if wearing our name tags and properly attired
in khakis and polos, as the rumors circulated that our offices
were being inspected as we attended the mandatory gathering,
many of us were just “happy to have a job in this economy,”
and enjoyed a meal of fellowship and school spirit as we
listened to how wonderful the coming year would be
if we all just tightened our already tight belts and understood
the factory-like efficiency benefits of “limiting all personal
belongings equivalent to a single box for ease to pack up
at a moment’s notice while observed by an immediate
supervisor and an officer and carried with minimal strain
on our backs while making way to our vehicles as to avoid
any liabilities.” The laugh-track skipped a few times during
the presentation, but the communications department worked
out the kinks. While a surprise at first, it was all much easier
to understand once the soul extraction options #1 and #2
were explained at the required annual insurance presentations.
Examples of an eased professional existence had been
provided by leadership for some time it was explained.
We were expected not only to comply, but to do so gladly.
Everyone was also invited to this spring’s Margaretville Cruise.

For Thine Is
R.A. Clemens
The sterile office incubates
an embryonic batch of hacks
who dream of pastures green behind
the technicolour screens of macs
Today the dark Satanic mills
are concrete, steel, and tempered glass
If Progress were an obelisk
you'd still require an I.D. pass
to enter through its pearly gates.
And still, tomorrow's Bright Young Things
who normalise that Hell awaits
accept the debt to earn their wings.

To my baby who just learned how to
walk
Lauren Suchenski
If I could wrap the world around your tongue
into the slightest sliver of a word
I’d tell you all the twisting things that will meet you
when you walk.
I’d tell you, sweet baby,
about the paths that lead nowhere at all
the fragments of days that will get stuck on the roof of your mouth
the snowflakes that will rest on your eyebrows
and the fires that will never be put out.
I’d tell you how these feet
will burn, will turn and tumble
over themselves; these feet will lead
you into stories, will run you hot with air,
these feet will walk through measured moments
and tiny triumphs. These feet will learn to dance.
I’d tell you about shoes,
how people will convince you they’ll protect your
ten small toes. But truly, they will never teach
you what it is to feel the ground beneath you.
I’d tell you about legs,
how muscles will cling to your bones
and rush you out the door. Will fly you across a field
and fail you at the end of the road. These legs will
hold. These legs will keep secrets.
I’d tell you about your feet,
and all the feet that have walked
to let you walk.
But my words are just mumblechatter to you
they just sing in tunes and whistle out your ears
you smile back at me and still feel unafraid.

Making Chicken Stock on Day of the
Dead
Amy Rea
November first.
Chicken carcass.
Farm market haul:
heads of garlic halved horizontally
onions, skin and all,
carrots, celery, root to leaves,
tomatoes, whole cloves, bay leaf.
Water.
Low heat.
Merest simmer, barely a bubble.
By day’s end, gold.
The fragrant stock
conjures my grandmother’s kitchen
and the weekly pot—
carrot peelings, beet tops,
marrow bones, chicken feet,
drooping celery. Salt. Nothing wasted.
All returned at holidays. Ham, turkey
lutefisk, Jello salad
stuffing, mashed potatoes
relish tray
krumkake, berlinkranser, lefse.
And gravy, the heart of the matter,
new drippings, old broth.
Later, my mother,
working two jobs,
dazzled by cans and cartons
of timesavers—
Bouillon! Bisquick!
Cake mix!
Instead of the tyranny of time:
a can, a whirring opener—

Presto! Broth.
Home-cooked
and not.
I look for them
in the ghostly wisps of steam
that rise as the water
draws its flavor
its golden-red color
from the weakening vegetables.

A Letter to Auguste Rodin About the
Thinker’s Privileges
Darren C. Demaree
Yes, he is special enough
to be treated specially
twice a year, but good lord
he’s brutish, isn’t he? Could
you break the hymn to hum
him enough song to be human?

A (Close) Call
Courtney Lavender
he wore uncertainty
as a cloak
for that moment
only
in a dark café on a late night meet.
next thing he spoke
- they either love you
or they think you’re a cunt -
and i nearly said i loved him.
i think you’re a cunt,
i said.

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