The woman across the way in the window
pointing with bowstring fingers
pulling back her hair and bracing her hands
rising, stopping, and sitting again
I cannot hear the words she says
or what is said to her
but I can feel the drumbeats of her frustration
the bone, slate cracking anger in the room
she's not angry at the woman beside her
she grabs the book on the desk like an anchor,
not like a club or a shield
she's falling and trying to slow her fall
The silent words that stop at her window
that almost leave imprints for me to see
seem to ease the burden
like the tapping of rain against a tin roof
Her hands still fly up, but not as high
she still pulls back her hair,
rises, stops, and sits again
but the movements are slower and less taut
She's sinking into the desk now,
her elbow first, standing like columns beneath her chin
then her shoulders give, and with glacial calm
her head rolls slowly forward
The woman across the way in the window
thinking with her hands tucked under her chin
settling like evening waves
waiting for the sun to set again
2/28/12
2/16/12
Scribbles
The woman walked in
slowly, coldly
and in a big, black coat
she turned to find her desk
burdened a second chair
with her big, black coat
and books
and purse
and then began to read
she was much smaller
without the big, black coat
and her glasses also seemed
to finally fit the tiny shapes of blue
within her eyes
The desk lamp tried to warm her hands
put ambers and embers of light
across her pale fingers
as they moved like kindling
over dry, bone pages
Years at the same desk
the same chair
the same lamp
had sadly done nothing
for her
her posture was terrible
her neck coiled threateningly
her head burdened
by the weight of her earrings
she exhaled deeply, quickly
and with annoyance
when the books hid along the row
some shuffled or moaned in their spines
when they were eventually
and always
found
And back she walked
to her desk
gleaning
grazing
and strip-mining
every line from book
When the day is done
she dons her big, black coat again
and the second chair sighs with relief.
She presses the blues of her eyes
back into beads of affliction
and walks with the weight of her earrings
pulling her chin slowly into her chest.
She'll leave
slowly, and coldly
in her big, black coat
which somehow seems bigger
while the books and shelves seem leaner
slowly, coldly
and in a big, black coat
she turned to find her desk
burdened a second chair
with her big, black coat
and books
and purse
and then began to read
she was much smaller
without the big, black coat
and her glasses also seemed
to finally fit the tiny shapes of blue
within her eyes
The desk lamp tried to warm her hands
put ambers and embers of light
across her pale fingers
as they moved like kindling
over dry, bone pages
Years at the same desk
the same chair
the same lamp
had sadly done nothing
for her
her posture was terrible
her neck coiled threateningly
her head burdened
by the weight of her earrings
she exhaled deeply, quickly
and with annoyance
when the books hid along the row
some shuffled or moaned in their spines
when they were eventually
and always
found
And back she walked
to her desk
gleaning
grazing
and strip-mining
every line from book
When the day is done
she dons her big, black coat again
and the second chair sighs with relief.
She presses the blues of her eyes
back into beads of affliction
and walks with the weight of her earrings
pulling her chin slowly into her chest.
She'll leave
slowly, and coldly
in her big, black coat
which somehow seems bigger
while the books and shelves seem leaner
2/8/12
Fellin' Trees
People had always thought it strange that Jack had lost his grandson, and not his son, to his pride. Jack was a prideful man. No two ways about it. And he knew it. Butting heads with him was like colliding with a center divider, it was always there and he didn't care if you broke every bone in your body running into him. He'd still be there. Most everyone thought they knew how it would happen. Jack's son would grow up and the arguments would get louder after each birthday. Maybe a few punches would be thrown. Threats to grab the shotgun or to steal the car. Finally someone would drive out west or someone would have to call the coroner. Some expected both. But it didn't happen like that. Not entirely.
Jack's son Jack (probably gave him his name to prove he owned him) grew up and they did fight. Hell, Jack put the rest of the adolescent rascals to shame. Both of them. But something brought it to an end and no one ever quite knew why. Young Jack didn't fight with his father no more, mostly stayed out of his way, and and the Old Jack didn't pick arguments with his son, and he mostly stayed out of his way too. So it stayed. Amicable indifference.
But then Young Jack was married, had a son, named him James (to prove that no one owned him), and it all started up again. For one reason or another, James grew up with a fierce disliking of his grandfather and Old Jack rustled off all the years of silent sulking like a worn out suit. He positively welcomed arguments again. Even when James was still a boy, Old Jack did all he could to fuel his temper. Teased him in public. Mocked him in private. And if his father wasn't around, Old Jack really let him have it. Strangely enough, James had too much pride to ever cry to his father about it. Never said a word to anyone about it. Just lived with it, angry as hell and only towards one person on earth. Even Young Jack, with all his work to do right by his son, to give him more than his father had given him, wasn't nearly enough. Couldn't do anything about that canker at the base of James' stomach. And he didn't know about it either, until it was too late.
They say that James was the first to strike and the last. He was 17 by then, had arms and hands for hard work, blunt with calluses and beaten to their hardest. Old Jack was truly old then too. He'd started to move a bit slower. Left a little bit of work undone every day, but what he lost in stature, he made up for in tongue. He insulted everything that anyone could every call special, tore a line at every ribbon of calm his family had. Young Jack tried to set an example, tried to keep a distance with his father, but James kept staying close. Kept taking the insults, tempting the anger, waiting for his old grand daddy to step out of line. It's like the boy had somethin to prove, like the teenagers that try standing under the waterfall, he had to take it, even if it'd break his neck.
Fact is, it didn't.
James broke Old Jack's neck instead.
He was the first to strike and the last. It didn't take much for Old Jack to go down, probably little more for him to go down for good. That was a blessing I guess. But James kept driving away at the old man, his fist rising and his arm falling like there was something to find in all that pummeling. Something that could be taken back, something that could be regained, but he never did find it. Or at least, there wasn't much left of his grand daddy when he did find it.
Thankfully, Young Jack was the first to find. James had stopped by then and he was standing over Old Jack like a prize fighter, his fist still clenched, his breath full with triumph. Young Jack just stood in the door. He wasn't ever quite sure, but he knew James moved when his shadow reached him from the door. Couldn't remember if the sun was low enough for it to reach him or if they had both stood there, minute by minute, until the shadow was finally long enough. Either way, James had plenty of time to make up his mind, turned and walked out the door, past his father, and only after he was past, long past, did he say "bye pa".
Young Jack did everything he was supposed to, only in the order he wanted. He called the coroner, told him Old Jack was dead. Didn't quite explain how. Called the police next, told them they needed to come. Don't hurry yourselves, we're alright he said. So the coroner and the sheriff came out, taking their sweet time on the warm afternoon. It was at least an hour between them and Old Jack's house and they had no reason to hurry.
They never did pass James, he must of gone off the other way, California's that way, that's why I guess they never did corss. But they did get to Old Jack's place, found Young Jack standing in the kitchen. He said hi to both men, told 'em where to find his father and went out the back with an axe on his shoulder. Both men weren't prepared for what they found and needed more than a few minutes after they found Old Jack. They were farmers, had helped butcher steers or hogs at one time or another, but killing livestock was kinder than what they found. By the time they found their senses, Young Jack was already wailing at a tree out back. An old, monstrous kind of wood. He kept swinging away at it while the sheriff made more calls. He kept swinging when them other folks started to show up. Some people tried to ask him what happened. He just kept swinging. He was sweatin by then, his shirt straight through, his hair weighed down, he could've been crying and no one would have seen the difference. And still he battered away at that monstrous, old wood/
It took a solid hour or two, but he brought that tree down. Let it fall without a timber. Then he set his axe down and told the sheriff what he found. Never did talk about the tree, no one wanted to ask about it either. They mostly say he lost his mind, whatever had been wrong with Old Jack all that time, that same thing that had been wrong in James, must have been in Young Jack too. It was proved right then when he fell that tree, the broken pieces of his father lying in his house while his son drove down some empty road out West. They're mostly wrong though, these people you see. Young Jack had nothing in his father or his son when he took down that tree. Nothing at all. I think he took it down because he would never find a way to say what tore inside of him that day. No words at all. The only thing that fit was the sound of that tree, the snapping and cracking of every wooden sinew as it toppled under its weight. Tha's the only way to say it.
No one ever thought to ask, they were most happy that they had been right, that Old Jack had cost someone their temper and that James had run off to California. No one ever needed to ask.
Jack's son Jack (probably gave him his name to prove he owned him) grew up and they did fight. Hell, Jack put the rest of the adolescent rascals to shame. Both of them. But something brought it to an end and no one ever quite knew why. Young Jack didn't fight with his father no more, mostly stayed out of his way, and and the Old Jack didn't pick arguments with his son, and he mostly stayed out of his way too. So it stayed. Amicable indifference.
But then Young Jack was married, had a son, named him James (to prove that no one owned him), and it all started up again. For one reason or another, James grew up with a fierce disliking of his grandfather and Old Jack rustled off all the years of silent sulking like a worn out suit. He positively welcomed arguments again. Even when James was still a boy, Old Jack did all he could to fuel his temper. Teased him in public. Mocked him in private. And if his father wasn't around, Old Jack really let him have it. Strangely enough, James had too much pride to ever cry to his father about it. Never said a word to anyone about it. Just lived with it, angry as hell and only towards one person on earth. Even Young Jack, with all his work to do right by his son, to give him more than his father had given him, wasn't nearly enough. Couldn't do anything about that canker at the base of James' stomach. And he didn't know about it either, until it was too late.
They say that James was the first to strike and the last. He was 17 by then, had arms and hands for hard work, blunt with calluses and beaten to their hardest. Old Jack was truly old then too. He'd started to move a bit slower. Left a little bit of work undone every day, but what he lost in stature, he made up for in tongue. He insulted everything that anyone could every call special, tore a line at every ribbon of calm his family had. Young Jack tried to set an example, tried to keep a distance with his father, but James kept staying close. Kept taking the insults, tempting the anger, waiting for his old grand daddy to step out of line. It's like the boy had somethin to prove, like the teenagers that try standing under the waterfall, he had to take it, even if it'd break his neck.
Fact is, it didn't.
James broke Old Jack's neck instead.
He was the first to strike and the last. It didn't take much for Old Jack to go down, probably little more for him to go down for good. That was a blessing I guess. But James kept driving away at the old man, his fist rising and his arm falling like there was something to find in all that pummeling. Something that could be taken back, something that could be regained, but he never did find it. Or at least, there wasn't much left of his grand daddy when he did find it.
Thankfully, Young Jack was the first to find. James had stopped by then and he was standing over Old Jack like a prize fighter, his fist still clenched, his breath full with triumph. Young Jack just stood in the door. He wasn't ever quite sure, but he knew James moved when his shadow reached him from the door. Couldn't remember if the sun was low enough for it to reach him or if they had both stood there, minute by minute, until the shadow was finally long enough. Either way, James had plenty of time to make up his mind, turned and walked out the door, past his father, and only after he was past, long past, did he say "bye pa".
Young Jack did everything he was supposed to, only in the order he wanted. He called the coroner, told him Old Jack was dead. Didn't quite explain how. Called the police next, told them they needed to come. Don't hurry yourselves, we're alright he said. So the coroner and the sheriff came out, taking their sweet time on the warm afternoon. It was at least an hour between them and Old Jack's house and they had no reason to hurry.
They never did pass James, he must of gone off the other way, California's that way, that's why I guess they never did corss. But they did get to Old Jack's place, found Young Jack standing in the kitchen. He said hi to both men, told 'em where to find his father and went out the back with an axe on his shoulder. Both men weren't prepared for what they found and needed more than a few minutes after they found Old Jack. They were farmers, had helped butcher steers or hogs at one time or another, but killing livestock was kinder than what they found. By the time they found their senses, Young Jack was already wailing at a tree out back. An old, monstrous kind of wood. He kept swinging away at it while the sheriff made more calls. He kept swinging when them other folks started to show up. Some people tried to ask him what happened. He just kept swinging. He was sweatin by then, his shirt straight through, his hair weighed down, he could've been crying and no one would have seen the difference. And still he battered away at that monstrous, old wood/
It took a solid hour or two, but he brought that tree down. Let it fall without a timber. Then he set his axe down and told the sheriff what he found. Never did talk about the tree, no one wanted to ask about it either. They mostly say he lost his mind, whatever had been wrong with Old Jack all that time, that same thing that had been wrong in James, must have been in Young Jack too. It was proved right then when he fell that tree, the broken pieces of his father lying in his house while his son drove down some empty road out West. They're mostly wrong though, these people you see. Young Jack had nothing in his father or his son when he took down that tree. Nothing at all. I think he took it down because he would never find a way to say what tore inside of him that day. No words at all. The only thing that fit was the sound of that tree, the snapping and cracking of every wooden sinew as it toppled under its weight. Tha's the only way to say it.
No one ever thought to ask, they were most happy that they had been right, that Old Jack had cost someone their temper and that James had run off to California. No one ever needed to ask.
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