PeterNash

You, Me, and Henry

Driving away
and watching you
in your father’s felt fedora
haul the hose through the garden
I think of the poppies you planted
the magenta foxglove
nodding in the wind
and the drift of white iris.
In the shadow of a rose
Henry lolls
his black muzzle smiling at you
over pointed dog teeth.

A flock of sparrows
rushes over
dipping the high blue air
with outstretched wings
and for an instant,
framed in the rear-view mirror
we are held in place.

Once we swam in a green river, our bodies
like snakes among the bending fronds.
Above us on the hot stones
Henry sat gravely watching.

Each night we set out into darkness.
Henry at our feet,
shepherding us in our sleep,
practicing for that time
when one of us will fall.
Two will go on.
And then one.
That will be all

Why I Drink in the Early Morning Light

On some days I can make it
all the way from Lee’s Superette
down the path through the blackberries
to the eucalyptus tree
with the muscatel
still in my pocket.
Today was not one of those days. I started here
in the middle of a berry bush
with that first sweet swallow—then another—and then
I rolled a cigarette from the blue foil pouch of Bugle,
lit up, and sucking in the gray smoke
found myself saying:
Thank you Lord, for showing me how
it’s supposed to be.
My hands are steady, my eyes are clear
and right now
I don’t feel like a piece of shit.

I took another sip
and my veins began to hum
a hundred birds with purple bills
were leaping from branch to branch
and gobbling berries off the green vines.
Their feathers wet with juice
they climbed the air in reeling squadrons,
flapped clumsy circles and returned
in a torrent of whistles, a delirium.

Joining the chorus of cockeyed sparrows
in a bedlam of uproarious sound
we sang in praise of berries,
muscatel, green vines,
the early morning light,
the leaf littered ground.

Driving Home

Dipping fries into the catsup cup on the passenger seat
the car smells of hot grease and Double Whoppers,
K-MUD is beating out a Cajun love song
and I picture a dark-eyed woman in a cotton dress
and worn penny loafers sitting on the bed,
the smoke of her cigarette sliding through the open window.
Leaning back, her feet still on the floor
she pulls me down under the swirl of curtains.
My arms tighten around the steering wheel
as if I could reverse direction, but tonight
I’m driving home.

A deer stares at me from the centerline,
its ears twitching like two white semaphores,
then leaps away in a perfect set of arches.
I pass a farmhouse with a blue light burning outside the barn,
wooden corrals, stock fences, chutes appear,
a thirty year old Studebaker on concrete blocks
guarded by a dog wagging its tail like a propellor.
It’s two more miles before I step out into moonlight at the gate,
hooves thud in the meadow, my old mare rushes up
and for an instant, her mane flowing in silver tributaries
across her arched neck and one great eye flashing,
it’s as if Pegasus, the winged horse of the gods,
has come to take me on his back
and vault into the sky among the pointed stars.

I’m home. On the table, feathers of steam
rise from bowls of green tea,
candles flutter between saucers of rice
covered with orange nasturtium petals
and my wife sits in a full lotus on the floor, eyes closed.
It’s cold in the house,
diapers soak in the bathtub smelling of urine,
the dogs lounge on the couch,
the cat stands on the table her nose in the rice,
dishes fill the sink
threatening to topple onto the counter
beneath a tacked up image of Kwan Yin, Goddess of Serenity.
Under a pile of sleeping bags and blankets
the kids huddle in our bed.
Mariah, the oldest one, whispers,
“Shhh, Daddy, Mamma’s meditating.”

I light the propane heater,
grab a beer I remember in the fridge,
and the kids and I wolf the Double Whoppers and fries
that I pull out of my backpack like a magician.
Then we wait for Mamma to open her eyes and smile.
No one’s in a hurry.
We’ll remember this moment forever when Daddy brought dinner
from Burger King on the night he left for good.



Gopher and Coyote

He was never quite quick enough
waiting at your cozy entrance
for your whiskered face with its stained teeth.
He could hear you stirring about,
feeling your way across the basement,
its cool cellars packed with roots,
its tunnels meandering in mazes
of such complexity
that even you could get lost.
He’d miss by a split second
jaws slamming shut against each other.

Digging through the night-black soil,
comfortable, well fed,
secure in your dark chambers
was not enough for you.
How else to explain it?
You must have wondered
what that day would be like—
that blinding, blazing day
and the feel of the sun
on your patchy yellow fur.

Eventually,
the split second went the other way.
Jaws clamped silent around your neck
legs kicking through grinning lips,
he laid you on your back
head lolling,
eyes closed over furry pouches,
your naked star-shaped hands
supplicating the hot sun.


Tracks

This morning at the end of the pasture,
I see a doe trailing a bloody rope
of afterbirth through the blowing grass.
Behind her a fawn stumbles
into the light.
Following the sharp cut hoof prints
into the Douglas firs
I see where they have lain at night
among the dry needles.
I lie down in the hollow of the doe’s body
my back tracing the contour of her spine,
and imagine the curve of my belly
cupping the fawn,
the tug of her mouth,
the gush of milk
and the rasp of my tongue
licking silvery mucous
from her stippled skin.
Above the trees, Orion,
standing with his great bow by the River Eridanus.
Beside him the deerhounds
tense at his sudden whistle,
then rush down the star trails,
plunging between the glittering peaks,
across the black fells
and along the path beneath the firs.