City of Light
—Photo by Chris Feldman
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
AN ANIMAL NEEDS TO EAT
In Response to Joyce Carol Oates’
"Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?"
air conditioner battles St. Louis’ June night heat
visiting for a week, as every summer,
ten years old, I kneel alone at Nana’s bedroom window
push up heavy glass, inhale traffic’s exhaust,
decades of city dirt, trees’ green aroma
my avid gaze sweeps Lindell Boulevard, traffic steady at 9:00 PM
pinpricks of red and gold, safety lights blink through mist
distant checkerboard Ralston-Purina tower melts into velvet darkness
below me, warm yellow light pours from 24-hour diner
muted whirs of wheels, car horns’ barks
teeth brushed, nightgown caressing me
I tarry, drink in the world through the window
a few minutes more before locking it, crawling into
Nana’s giant bed to sleep in protected comfort
yesterday, I changed my mind at the last minute
declined the Beatles’ concert with Nana’s friends
though I know all their songs, sing all their songs
nights back in Illinois, transistor radio
rocking me to sleep, secretly under my pillow
In Response to Joyce Carol Oates’
"Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?"
air conditioner battles St. Louis’ June night heat
visiting for a week, as every summer,
ten years old, I kneel alone at Nana’s bedroom window
push up heavy glass, inhale traffic’s exhaust,
decades of city dirt, trees’ green aroma
my avid gaze sweeps Lindell Boulevard, traffic steady at 9:00 PM
pinpricks of red and gold, safety lights blink through mist
distant checkerboard Ralston-Purina tower melts into velvet darkness
below me, warm yellow light pours from 24-hour diner
muted whirs of wheels, car horns’ barks
teeth brushed, nightgown caressing me
I tarry, drink in the world through the window
a few minutes more before locking it, crawling into
Nana’s giant bed to sleep in protected comfort
yesterday, I changed my mind at the last minute
declined the Beatles’ concert with Nana’s friends
though I know all their songs, sing all their songs
nights back in Illinois, transistor radio
rocking me to sleep, secretly under my pillow
Fundraising in Salt Lake City, 1982
—Photo by Chester DeWitt Rose
—Photo by Chester DeWitt Rose
CHRISTMAS EVE
Salt Lake City, 1982
Snow squeaks under my boots’
careful trudge, mountain road
door-to-door in twilight
above a bowl of sparkling gold
mansions dot the darkening road
shivering, I approach, ring the bell
inside, lady views my box of prints
gifts for donations to our church
not her church, yet she donates
compelled to give on Christmas
feeling respect, sisterhood
or maybe just compassionate
I step out of her warm home
ready to go to the next, but
my path is blocked--city cop’s car
crunches to a halt before me
no solicitation permit, no excuse, no lip
we drive down the mountainside
at the station, I call the church center
back in Illinois
team leader calls in at prearranged time
gets my news
he pays the fine
more than I brought in today
I breathe more easily
hands and feet warm
we pick up Chinese
check the team into a motel
Fundraising in Salt Lake City, 1982
—Photo by Chester DeWitt Rose
—Photo by Chester DeWitt Rose
NIGHT MOON UNDER QUARANTINE
surreal, unreal, it doesn’t seem real
alone in a small studio
third month now
I have what I need to survive
others starve, are homeless
shelter in place without clean water, any water
no heat, air conditioning, power
no access to medication or care
locked down with an abuser or molester
read of thousands sick
numbers of the dying unthinkable
every country
beloveds of all ages
elders, mothers, fathers, children
many dying alone in hospitals
some buried in mass graves
nurses, doctors
traumatized by service
this strange war is everywhere now
affects all people
enemy lives on surfaces
attacks through touch, travels by air
no cure, no vaccine yet
it is real but doesn’t seem real
do soldiers in battle experience this
strange juxtaposition between being alive
in their bodies while
danger, death rage all around them
small flowers glow white in the moonlight still
and the night breeze is sweet
do civilians feel that still, cowering under attack
humanity sheds thick, blind skin
will grow through this trauma
reborn as immunity develops
but first, what loss
what sobering, permanent pain
surreal, unreal, it doesn’t seem real
alone in a small studio
third month now
I have what I need to survive
others starve, are homeless
shelter in place without clean water, any water
no heat, air conditioning, power
no access to medication or care
locked down with an abuser or molester
read of thousands sick
numbers of the dying unthinkable
every country
beloveds of all ages
elders, mothers, fathers, children
many dying alone in hospitals
some buried in mass graves
nurses, doctors
traumatized by service
this strange war is everywhere now
affects all people
enemy lives on surfaces
attacks through touch, travels by air
no cure, no vaccine yet
it is real but doesn’t seem real
do soldiers in battle experience this
strange juxtaposition between being alive
in their bodies while
danger, death rage all around them
small flowers glow white in the moonlight still
and the night breeze is sweet
do civilians feel that still, cowering under attack
humanity sheds thick, blind skin
will grow through this trauma
reborn as immunity develops
but first, what loss
what sobering, permanent pain
Lockdown
—Photo by Chris Feldman
Today’s LittleNip:
The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the whorl into words.
—William H. Gass
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Wehrman, Chris Feldman, and Chester DeWitt Rose for today’s fine presentation!
—Public Domain Photo
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
