18.
Almost Dark
I hear his
truck throw gravel
so I go hide
in the woods.
He looks for
me, thinking I am
somewhere
between the rabbit cages
and the goat
pen but I am not.
I watch him
from the creek.
He doesn’t
think to look there
and yells my
name—
as if I would
come.
Maple leaves
gargle his throat-call
and I squat
thinking of ways
to kill him.
He hasn’t quit looking
for me yet
and scans the tree line.
I bet he is
angry now,
his face
turning beer-cooler red.
He knows I’m
hiding.
I see him
walk back to
his truck
and grab
another High Life.
I go deeper
into the woods
and pick up
that heavy shovel I left
when I buried
the litter of Flemish Giants
dogs ate on.
He’ll stumble
through here
soon enough.
~Susan Yount~
(from Susan Yount’s contest winning Blood
Pudding Press poetry chapbook, “House on Fire”, available NOW! - https://www.etsy.com/listing/177826146/new-house-on-fire-by-susan-yount-2014?
(“Almost Dark” was previously published in
Chaffin Journal, Eastern Kentucky University)
*
17.
She Thought
She thought, Now, what?
Shit! She held
two hostages,
clerks the age
of her kids.
The boy
squinted at the gun.
She thought
he could tell
it’s a
Crossman.
The robber
wanted to
get him
out of the
store,
figured he’d
take off
if she
ordered him to run
to the truck
and grab her
bottle of Jack
in the
passenger seat.
He bolted.
She turned to
the girl.
You
called police,
I
know.
Thank
God
the
boy is gone.
It’s
less
complicated
now.
The glass
door flew open.
The tin bell
shot off.
The clerk and
robber wheeled,
thinking,
Cops!
But it was
the boy, red-faced, returning
and waving
the whiskey bottle
in his
clenched fist
like a gold
bell.
~Paul David Adkins~
(from Paul David Adkin’s contest winning
Blood Pudding Press poetry chapbook, “Stick Up”, coming soon)
*
16.
Taxidermy
No display cabinets
for you, but black
and white rooms,
unhinged doors,
thresholds leading
everywhere and
anywhere. And you.
Evanescent fragments
of skin stuffed
with your personality
surrounded by objects,
debris, flowers.
Precious specimen
of human taxidermy
dancing amidst
shafts of light.
(for
Francesca Woodman)
(from Alessandra Bava’s contest winning
Blood Pudding Press poetry chapbook, “They Talk About Death”, coming soon)
*
15.
My Little Ones
I
heard you crying in the dark,
my
little ones.
So I
made a soup
of old
photographs, a shoe
with a
hole in its sole,
and a
broken alarm clock.
My
little ones,
it's
hard to understand
what
you want
in the
dusty corners
made
of shadows, webs, and a few
bitten
fingernails the color of twilight snow.
There
are so many dolls
that
go to sleep and wake
all by
themselves.
I am
sure each of them
has
some idea where
the
devil exits.
As
with you, I put my ear
to
their lips,
only
to have a brown mouse
run
out of their holes
into
mine.
It's
so hard to know where you are
out
there among the winter trees
and
the godforsaken dreams,
my
little ones.
And
not even that small squeak
of a
voice inside
can
tell me
whether
I should look
with my
eyes open or closed.
~Donavon Davidson~
(from “The
Last Place on Earth”, manuscript by
Donavon Davidson, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
14.
Making the Cut
Shattered
light bulbs
scattered
in front of a door.
Crumpled
obituaries
surrounding
a honeymoon bed.
Mine
are the virgins of cautionary tales.
The
small children who wander off
into
dark forests
following
a trail of breadcrumbs.
In
certain times
they
were arrows aimed at the apple
on a
little boy's head.
Their
red release
directing
a safe escape
in the
event of fire.
Now I
use them to count
how
long I held my breath
before
coming up for air from a sea
where
everything is named
by the
manner in which their hooks are baited.
The
hairline crack of an egg.
The
auguries of discarded antlers
of a
winter deer.
Mine
are the maps
I
buried in the open air
to
remain mislaid.
~Donavon Davidson~
(from “The
Last Place on Earth”, manuscript by Donavon Davidson, a Finalist in
the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
13.
The Understudies
Casting
calls are posted
on the
telephone poles of our street.
The
part of a missing child is needed
to
tell the ghost story of our times.
Word
was spread by tapping
on the
walls between our rooms,
our
muffled heartbeats
that
gave the clocks
a
little less darkness.
We
kept making our tiny distress
signals
with cupboard doors
and
bedsprings,
but
the hungry mice
dared
not disturb our traps.
Only
the exterminators,
with
their make-believe bread,
arrived
at our doors
to
lure away the small bodies
we
couldn’t see.
The
ones having conversations
with
birdbaths.
The
ones dangling in closets
next to
a few wire hangers.
~Donavon Davidson~
(from “The
Last Place on Earth”, manuscript by Donavon Davidson, a Finalist in
the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
12.
It
What
we remind ourselves
we
must do.
Build
a playground
from
yesterdays condemned midnight.
The
rope from its noose
will
make a perfect swing.
Its
dull knives, good balance beams
in
which we can walk
toe to
toe,
arms
out-stretched
in the
shape of a cross.
We'll
take the twelve chairs
of the
jury box
and
tie them
into a
merry-go-round.
Its
tune will be a familiar one
we
can't place,
but on
the tip of our tongues.
Perhaps
we will scatter
seeds
of wildflowers
on the
ruins
of our
old time religion.
Morning
glories will climb
the
meat hooks;
daisies
and green grass
will
make a soft bed
from
the grated floor
where
all the blood and guts
slipped
away.
On
Sundays and holidays
we'll
say it is closed
to the
public.
Together
we will lie
in the
meadow
pretending
the soft tinkling
of
chains
is
just the rain
making
everything grow.
We can
take turns
being
it.
First,
you'll do me.
A
birdcage
fashioned
from fingers
pointing
ominously.
A
little mirror
to
peck at
with
apprehension.
Next,
I'll do you.
An
October bell
in a
church steeple
made
of an ancient maple.
Its
many echoes
causing
me to put my ear
to the
wind
that I
might hear
what
invisible hand
is behind
it all.
The
skipping record
of the
classic song
taking
me back
to our
first kiss.
The
part where the big-bosomed soprano
makes
me believe once more,
right
before the cymbal crash,
right
before the cymbal crash…
~Donavon Davidson~
(from “The
Last Place on Earth”, manuscript by
Donavon Davidson, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
11.
For Each One-Night Lover
She cuts a
fingerful of hair and drops
it from her
bedroom window. Rubs
the strands
stuck between thumb
& pinky
like a pinch of salt. Each invisible
piece landing
amongst the wild mint & hyacinth.
In the
morning, she makes a broth
with whatever
she can spare: a dash
of parsley,
three turnips, at least one
fingernail
& a sliver of her bottom lip,
the flesh
soft & lipstick stained.
Brings it all
to a boil and tells her guests
sip slowly, stay
for a little while.
But each has
eyes glazed
like great
big moon pies
& they
stumble out
as soon as a
piece of skin surfaces,
the taste of
something too familiar.
*
She sleeps
under a birch tree,
teeth missing
and legs splayed
across roots
& rocks. From the left corner
of her mouth,
saliva & blood trickle
to her
neckline. Clumps of dirt are matted
in her uneven
hair, and she’s been wearing
the same
soiled apron for weeks now.
She pulls
herself to the door, calls out.
But all her
lovers are minced
and
marinating in pots,
the rotten
stew boiled over
on the
checkered kitchen floor.
Her
saw-toothed breath
echoing in an
empty house.
(from “Red
Moon”, manuscript by Kelly Andrews, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
10.
Steel
town—
a shark’s tooth in the crescent crook of your knee. You cross a bridge
to the West End, try to fill up the space between the shores by reciting your
mother’s recipes.
Steep hills, cramped row houses and a luminous skyline replace
memories of an abandoned amusement park, run-down trailers and rusted out cars
in the neighbor’s yard. You start anew, sometimes count how many steps you take
in a city block, see how far you’ve come (one
teaspoon of baking powder, two teaspoons of vanilla, a splash of vermouth).
Late afternoon, you stand at the lookout with gloved hands resting in
your pockets. At this height, the wind is whipping your hair and you can see
the rooftops clearly in the December sun. At this height, everything is in
motion. The blue jays jump across the electrical lines, the smoke stacks huff
in the crisp winter breeze.
In this place, you’re poised in a purgatory of what was once thriving
and what now has the chance to rebuild. Another steel town, stillbirth and
heavy in your Pennsylvania belly.
(from “Red
Moon”, manuscript by Kelly Andrews, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
9.
Birds Do Not Move at Random
I. Murmuration
I study the
fledglings
from my
bedroom window: Finches,
larks and
whip-poor-wills. One hand
cupped
against my forehead, wrist pressed
against pane,
the other noting their movement:
jerky necks,
hop steps, the opening & closing
of their
beaks. Eyes so small.
Eyes watching
me watch them.
II. Migration
Always in
flight, you forget to pack
lightly, my
tears weighing more
than you
anticipate. At our goodbye,
you kiss my
cheek & hold your lips there, pressing
harder,
harder. Your words, soft in my ear—a faint chirp.
I snip your
patch of gray hair, save it for the nest
I’m building.
Let the birds rest against my knuckles.
Each little
wing a reminder. Each bone a map
leading home.
III. Skeins
You showed up
in my poem again. This time
as a yellow-throated
sparrow, picking at stale
fries on the
corner of Lilac Street.
The closer my
feet inch, the more anxious
your
movements. I repeat don’t go, don’t go,
but you can’t
hear me. And then I’m in your throat,
begging to be
swallowed whole. You spare no time,
stiff backed
& eager.
If this were
a dream, you’d never
board the
plane. Instead, we’d build
a
russet-colored house, drink cheap
champagne.
I’d braid my hair with sticks
& yarn.
Paint words on the bathroom wall:
pith and medulla. You
could tuck each
wing into
your corduroy coat, bind
the sinew
with fallen eyelashes. Or drink
me down like
warm salt water, something
(from “Red
Moon”, manuscript by Kelly Andrews, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
8.
His mouth: a sinkhole, a shake hole, a
swallow hole
Our movements
are like wallpaper flaking
in flecks,
folds. These are his lips, small &
open; and
there, my fingers grasping sheet,
grabbing
hair. Once, we fenced ourselves into
my attic,
three floors above dirt and ground
and oh, how
the seeds took hold. The floorboards,
the binding
in books, even the space between
my front
teeth grew with time. We tried to find
a pathway,
instead our bodies raveled in a vestige
of
sweat-stained sheets; the echo of a clock; a shadow
cast onto a
full moon.
here is the
way out: write a letter, write three. do not keep the origami flower/borrowed
books/empty bottles of black velvet/rational thinking. write more letters.
throw all of them away in some grand gesture. move to a two-story home &
stay indoors. try to quit smoking, try yoga in the morning, try to keep moving.
In the months
since, my teeth have yellowed & my hair has grown long. Of that place, I
recall only the way the sunlight came through the kitchen window in late
afternoon. But now, there’s no shadows, no cracks for anything to take root or
fall through.
(from “Red
Moon”, manuscript by Kelly Andrews, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
7.
A dream, a mountain
Every
man starts with a dream,
a
dream spewed forth into the world
like
a god through the crack in Zeus’
immeasurable
skull.
His
dream is a mountain.
It
looms large, its peak capped with red snow,
stabbing
through the heart of the sky.
It
casts its cool shadow on his face,
a
comfort at times from the hell
of
hard work.
It’s
a comfort because he knows
the
top of the mountain
is
within grasp,
if
he can just start to climb.
At
the top there is peace of mind,
like
a glass of bourbon, served neat.
His
hands ache to feel the bite
of
that hard rock, to have its gray dust
worked
into the crevices between his nails.
His
determination sets the pace
of
his march toward fate,
welcoming
the calluses that armor his skin,
welcoming
the nights of slumber
in
the blanket of that great shadow.
He
walks. He dreams. He walks.
In
time, it becomes clear
that
the horizon line of sawtooth stone
stays
equidistant from his feet,
gray
lines breaking through his beard,
cracks
forming in his skin,
as
if he himself is becoming a statue
made
of the very stone he aches to touch,
his
pace slowing to an arthritic crawl,
the
mountain he thought was his,
just
part of an infinite range
spanning
the edge of the world,
its
shadow no longer a comfort,
now
just a cruel reminder of youth,
a
reminder of what once seemed easy,
a
reminder of the mistake
in
thinking a dream could be reached on foot,
while
so many others fly by overhead
on
dragons or winged horses
his
mind has forgotten how to tame.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood
Pudding Press contest)
*
6.
Transcending
Every
time the trees speak
in
their forgotten language
of
wind and leaves and creaking
limb
whispers, he wonders
what
it all means. He wonders
why
at times it feels like
all
the air around him hums
like
a jar full of angry bees,
his
hands begging to be
thrust
into the washbasin
of
sky and wrung out
like
flightless birds’ tears
into
a rainstorm. Everyone
is
busy getting cancer
and
fucking up their lives,
while
the crickets continue
to
sing their siren song at dusk,
an
open invitation to embrace
the
nakedness of darkening trees,
to
disintegrate into sparks.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay
Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
5.
An Elegy for Innocence
When
I was six I knew that Santa Claus existed,
and
that Christmas, I saw his silhouette
perched
on my grandmother’s roof, heard
bells
jingle as reindeer shuffled their anxious
hooves
against the frozen black shingles.
I
knew that God watched my every move,
knew
my every thought, twisted my heart
like
a blood-soaked rag every time
I
felt tempted to do wrong. Every dream
imagined,
every wish cast towards the stars,
every
truth spoken, was formed from purest
yearning
and unblemished perception.
A
body in a casket was a person asleep
who
wouldn’t wake up, a reason for people
to
cry, a reason to whisper and place flowers
over
foreign names. Don’t step on graves.
The
End were words for bedtime stories,
and
words taking a lifetime to learn how to fear.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay
Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
4.
A memory of light
The
flashlight is a scalpel used to autopsy the night,
your
arm a satellite beacon, searching for signs of life,
empty
eyes digging through space for natural light,
before
the stars die, before black holes devour the light,
candle
flame ghosts that vanish like promises in the night,
a
fading image of the past, a fading hope in the afterlife,
where
truth is sacrificed for the value of human life,
a
black-spined book used to make heavy hearts light,
and
convince closed eyes what was day is night,
this
life is an endless night, hope just a memory of light.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay
Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
3.
Grandmother’s house
had
a black roof, shingles made
from
the torn covers of bibles,
a
well with a stone lid
where
I would dream of drowning,
the
dark water below echoed splashes
from
my dropped popsicle sticks,
my
fingers sticky purple.
We
picked strawberries from the garden,
I
watched her silver knife
chop
off the ends, filling the sink
with
a tart smell, her fingers dripping
with
red juice like watery blood.
Bluegrass
and gospel hymns
see-sawed
down like feathers
from
the voices of quartet ghosts,
banjos
and guitars banging
like
pistons in an old tractor,
the
wind chimes on the porch
an
out of time tambourine,
my
grandfather whistling
while
he polished his shoes.
At
dusk, catfish mouths
would
break the surface of the pond,
to
devour my laughter
and
the dog food thrown
from
her strawberry scented hands.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay
Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
2.
Passing Through
The hospital
room is quiet
except for
her labored breaths,
each one
sounding more tortured
than the
last, rattling deep in her chest
with a thick,
mucus soaked squelch,
as if she is
breathing through
a straw
nearly
submerged in water,
her body
fighting so hard
to stay alive
that her legs quiver
with the
stress, and her ribs
expand and
deflate
with the
shuddery purpose
of a
hand-pumped bellows,
arms grown
tired.
We wait
around her,
watching,
faces solemn,
eyes brimming
with pain,
listening,
like sparrows
gathered
to usher her
soul
to the next
plane,
anticipating
the silence
of the sudden
stop.
I feel a bit
like a vulture,
just wishing
she would die.
My
grandfather never leaves her side.
Standing
ankle-deep
in a pool of
memories
and things
left unsaid,
the
fluorescent lights
cast us all
in a ghostly glow,
hugs and
tears passed around
the room like
a chain letter
that will
never make it
to heaven,
like the
crumpled tissues
balled into
hands
carrying the
DNA strands
of
snot-smeared prayers
whispered
into the palms
and left in
the disinfected trash cans.
Then the
anti-climax
of all this
tension is relieved,
when my
grandmother’s body
finally
ceases to breathe,
and the
silence is interrupted
by the agony
of my
mother’s grievous screams.
The nurse
turns her on her back,
and I watch
as her brain shuts down,
her mouth
open wide,
her chest
heaving,
still
fighting to suck in air
like a fish
out of the fish bowl,
too tired to
even thrash around,
just
accepting its fate,
blank eye
staring at nothing
but the
fading white
or the canvas
painted
by the brush
strokes
of misfired
synaptic nerves
deconstructing
reality
into blue and
yellow light
and the sound
of singing.
She tells us
there is no heartbeat.
She is gone.
This becomes
more obvious
with every
passing second,
as all traces
of humanity
dissipate
from her slackening face,
the lack of
blood flow
drawing her
toothless mouth
down into a
drooping hole
of loose
flesh,
frozen and
pale,
like a
petrified catfish
within a
human form,
and I’ll
always remember
my uncle’s
hand
stroking back
her matted hair,
pulling back
her eyelids
to reveal her
lifeless eyes,
like a
drugged animal
being petted
as it is
put to sleep.
I hug my
grandfather,
his sobs
echoing through me
like ripples
in a pond,
and I touch
her discolored hand,
it’s still
warm,
but not for
long.
Twenty
minutes later,
and we are in
the hall,
discussing
the arrangements,
deciding
where to eat on the way home.
Hanging from
the ceiling
are these
decorative coils
of metallic
ribbons and leaves,
a festive
reminder of Thanksgiving,
of family and
joy,
placed down
this hallway
of nothing
but dead ends.
I ripped them
all down.
I never
cried.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay
Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
*
1.
Being a Pallbearer
No one ever
tells you
how heavy a
coffin is.
It’s heavy.
It feels like
more than
a sheer
collection of atoms
bonded
together to form matter,
polished titanium
and brass
held to the
surface of the Earth
by a gravity
greater
than
planetary circumference
could muster,
it feels like
the weight
of a
lifetime’s worth of guilt,
seventy-four
years worth
of memories
and tear drops,
of
photographs and love letters,
of birthday
cards signed
with a
perfect penmanship
that comes
only from
the practice
of countless
signatures
scrawled
onto the
bottoms of checks
sent out in
envelopes
to grandkids
for Christmas.
It feels like
the weight
of the human
soul.
At the funeral,
it doesn’t
look like her,
her face is
wrong,
she looks
pissed off,
maybe because
her mouth
has been sewn
shut
without the
benefit
of her
dentures
and her
lipstick
is a bright
kind of pink
that she
would not
be caught
dead in,
a form of
irony
that will
catch up to us all:
we don’t
decide how the world
sees us for
the last time.
But at least
her hair
looks nice.
The room is a
collage-like
minuet of
different pitched
sobs and
whispered outcries
buried into
the shirts of hugs
and fists
bunched into
the backs of
suit jackets,
trembling
with the agony
of a loss
that coats
the air like
a blanket
of something
indescribable
yet
nonetheless there,
like the
outline
of a picture
frame
removed from
a wall.
My
grandfather says
he will see
her again,
I see the
sadness in his shoulders
as he hunches
over her,
lightly
touches her fingers
and her face,
says good-bye
without a word,
because there
are no words
left to say
that he
didn’t say
in the last
fifty years,
that he
didn’t say
while holding
her hand
and waiting
for her final breath.
He says it
won’t be long.
The service
begins with singing,
songs I
remember from my youth,
lifted from
the pages
of
paper-backed hymnals
with voices
that sound
like they are
coming from
the very
walls,
the singers
hidden away
like angels
for hire
with the
piano in the hall.
The preacher
preaches of salvation
and eternal
damnation,
the same
gospel and sermon
I have heard
a thousand times,
no more
poignant
because of
the proximity
to my
grandmother’s corpse,
but somehow more
sad.
He says she
was not afraid
to cross that
river,
but he wasn’t
there.
Afterwards,
after the prayers
and the
condolences of tearful embraces,
after the
shaking of hands
and the final
farewells,
I watch the
undertaker
remove her
jewelry
piece by piece,
including the
earrings
I thought
seemed
so out of
place
the night she
died,
her wedding
rings,
her butterfly
necklace,
and he places
them into
a small black
bag
and puts it
into his pocket,
just before
he closes the lid
and seals it
shut
with some sort
of wrench,
effectively
removing her
from the
physical world
with a
finality
that even
death
could not
accomplish.
They are
already
taking all
the flowers down.
The distance
from the porch
to the hearse
and then from
the hearse
to the grave
is only a
matter of steps,
maybe twenty
at the most,
and it passes
too quick,
before the
gravity
of the moment
can really sink in,
more with
thoughts
of “please
don’t fucking drop her”
than of this
is the closest
I will ever
be
to her for
the rest of my life
and I am
already forgetting
what her
voice sounded like.
The six of us
set her down
easy
over the
hollow ground,
they give
roses
from the
casket spray
to the
daughters and sons,
the tent
shielding us
from the cool
gray sky,
but not from
the wind.
It’s fucking
cold.
And then it’s
over.
(from
“No Place Like Hell”, manuscript by Jay
Sizemore, a Finalist in the Blood Pudding Press contest)
