“a sort of pull…”
Author: Sandee Gertz
Sunday Morning Coming Down
Church bells beat my alarm to my ears
And there ain’t no going back down
In the fridge there is a carton of orange juice and a can of beer
a gander at the calendar confirms Busch is today’s breakfast
snatch a flannel from the floor
Pull up some breeches from the hamper
A hat’s thrown on my head
And I’m out the door
I take the long way around town to avoid the Methodists
I cut through an alley taking precautions against the Baptists
I pass the Episcopalian church
I ain’t too sure if there are any of em’ in there
By the time I’m down yonder approaching the porch
I’m damn well sure I’m making a mistake
I sit behind the rusted john-boat and smoke a cigarette to clear my head
I splash on cologne from my shirt pocket to hide the stench
I walk into the house to be greeted by a creaky floor
The memory of the smell of pot roast is the only thing that feels welcoming
I take my seat at the table
As the ghosts begin to talk
They ask me about what I know
That new job and so on
I clean my plate
Hug my mama
Daddy tells me he’s proud of me
If he ever meant it
I hit the sidewalk
The good ole boys pass by in their truck
I light up my second.
Volunteer Veterans
A battalion is born
from former police officers,
wear a chevron
take the patch and medallion.
Training ahead
blood, sweat, and loss,
shame, I’m in a warm bed.
A Patriot in a Bulletproof Vest
Asian tigress
and a brave Kazakh kitty
purrs quietly, sneaks up,
meanwhile fear of enemies
as the holiday approaches.
Body armor factory,
a fragile girl built
national glory and honor.
You, Madina, deserve it.
To Infinity
She jogs the empty corner of the shopping center lot,
where barberries catch the dead leaves.
The wind fills her Buzz Lightyear coat,
thrashing and dingy at the elbow.
The bus hulks against the wind.
She stops and eyebrows my truck
when I wave her across. She grins like the boy
in the shopping cart I saw an hour ago,
in his own Buzz shirt, grin full of stars
at the galaxy he was discovering,
the world slow as understanding. The woman in the lot
already knows what it means to miss
the bus, to be late, to dare to run in front of a car
when you cannot see the driver, your hair a tangle
in a wind that, outside of any car, only you can feel.
The three-finger wave I give is barely visible
above the steering wheel, a hand
of threat and grace, which she won’t know
without that first step. She jogs the crosswalk, the bus
heaves and hisses, its windows reflecting her arms
and shoulders, her face watching the ground,
where the wind shoves leaves in every direction.
Make Things Whole
Snowfall’s white descent is piling up, uninterrupted,
in layers of soft milk-chalk, as if this is its burdensome
intent, to lay rule over a silenced city.
Snowflake: not the modern fragile sense, but as perfect
crystallization, the sum of every shade of color,
each one as wholly unique.
Children on the PS 118 playground know this,
know that snow is an invitation, a communal call
that bestows no rules.
A snowman gets built, rolled through dirt and debris,
patted down with wet and snot-smeared mittens.
His dirty, rock-coal eyes wink to their delight;
a smile of stones follows. A child pulls a button
from her thrift-store coat, offering what she can
to make things whole.
