{"id":3447,"date":"2012-03-27T23:49:35","date_gmt":"2012-03-27T23:49:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/poetry\/?p=330"},"modified":"2012-03-27T23:49:35","modified_gmt":"2012-03-27T23:49:35","slug":"3-poems-by-judy-wilson-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2012\/03\/27\/3-poems-by-judy-wilson-2\/","title":{"rendered":"3 Poems by Judy Wilson"},"content":{"rendered":"

Decay<\/strong><\/p>\n

Perplexed, he stares at her
\nstanding stunted in his row
\nyellowed needles dropping
\non the ground around his feet.
\nHe thought he took good care of her.<\/p>\n

When she\u2019s felled he\u2019ll see
\nthe heartwood
\nrings of age, thinned by drought
\nand find a core of rotting passion
\nthat gave its sap to scarred carvings\u2014
\nhearts, initials, disease.<\/p>\n

He\u2019ll never know
\nthe depths her taproot sought
\nanchored in mud
\nto satisfy an evergreen need
\nbreathing his poison
\nbranches reaching, ending
\nin terminal buds.<\/p>\n

But he\u2019ll feel the loss
\nwhen the roots are pulled free
\nand the shade\u2019s replaced
\nby heat and weeds
\nwhen the breeze echoes through
\nthe gap in his windbreak.<\/p>\n

_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

Into the Fall<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the July heat of Virginia
\nstanding beneath the shade of eighty-year-old oaks
\neating a dab of this, gob of that, from some forty dishes
\n\u2014at least\u2014
\nset proudly on long splintering tables covered
\nwith cheap yellow tablecloths
\non the grounds of Fountain Creek Baptist
\nafter dedicating the stained glass window
\nto mother\u2019s memory,<\/p>\n

     \the looked fine<\/p>\n

face tan, the dimples charming
\nstanding solid in his grey Sunday suit
\nwhite shirt, burgundy tie.
\nHow many hands did he have to shake<\/p>\n

between bites of barbecue
\nchicken muddle
\nslaw?<\/p>\n

Who could have guessed that by fall
\nhe would smooth roll-on deodorant
\nseriously over his pink shaven face
\nand that I would not laugh?
\nThat he would mistake the phone bill
\nfor the electric bill, happy
\nthat the cost had gone down?<\/p>\n

How could I have known\u2014
\nwatching him with the other deacons
\nwalking the aisle between the pews
\npassing the collection plate
\nwhile the pianist
\nfull of grace
\nhit wrong notes\u2014
\nthat a few months later
\nI would be sitting half the country away
\nsaying into the phone
\nWell, hide his keys?<\/p>\n

That by winter a Good Samaritan
\nwould stop along the dark country road
\nat quarter to midnight while the sleet came down
\nlift him back to his dizzy, dizzy bare feet
\nand walk him across that acre of yard
\nin his t-shirt and boxers
\nhis legs crooked and skinny
\nback to the warmth of the house
\nback to the woman sleeping inside?<\/p>\n

Forgive us, Father, for we know not
\nwhat to do with you.<\/p>\n

_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

I Ain\u2019t No Sylvia Browne <\/strong><\/p>\n

Look here now, look there:<\/p>\n

He raises his head\u2014from what?
\n          The ground?
\n                             Shoulder of the road?
\n                                                                        \t Road? <\/p>\n

A wash of light illuminates his furrowed brow, his cheeks, his sepia lips
\nHis clenched jaw gives up its cough, sputtering\u2014blood seeping color
\ninto the shadows\u2014the grays\u2014flecking his uniform\u2014
\nhis neck all sinewy, his eyes all goddamn\u2014<\/p>\n

goddamn<\/p>\n

I fight the covers to get to him\u2014what? how?\u2014stop this now\u2014see the blood sputtering down the chin\u2014the lips quiver\u2014the jaw spasm
\nI\u2019m running through a dark house, grabbing tissues, towels, pillows, cell phones\u2014
\na hundred cell phones\u2014spilling out of my arms
\nI stoop to recover one, then another, then three more fall<\/p>\n

I tweet:
\nFix this, fix it, goddamnit. <\/p>\n

The wake sets in, me awake
\nStills my runaway heart into the pillows
\nFear skinwalking on past, across my belly, my sweaty thighs
\n\u2014not this day, not that\u2014
\nand yet I\u2019ve pissed the bed.<\/p>\n

This is not to be the day\u2014<\/p>\n

The SUV\u2019ll run over his remains on the interstate
\n         \t\u2014see body twist and turn, learn and learn, twist and turn
\nThey\u2019ll tase one of their own\u2014Minnesota\u2019s finest\u2014affix gold star
\n         \t\u2014see body stiffen and fall, jerk, jerk, jerk, shrivel the balls
\nThey\u2019ll take care of the fag\u2014take the sugar out his tank\u2014insert smiley face
\n         \t\u2014surprise!\tsurprise!\tsurprise!
\nDrag him down the road in his own handcuffs\u2014key, key, whose got the key?
\n         \t\u2014what a tough little fuck\u2014my oh my.
\nEmpty a glock up the ass of my baby boy\u2014Trooper #\u2014uh-uh, wait\u2014<\/p>\n

Not this day, not that.<\/p>\n

On this day, as the last, and the two decades past\u2014<\/p>\n

I will walk the halls with phone to ear\u2014
\nhis voice will play its sharps, its flats on my heart
\nreassuring me that he is\u2014<\/p>\n

He. Is.<\/p>\n

All sepia lips
\nAnd disciplined
\nAnd soulful
\nAnd loved<\/p>\n

Less is not possible.
\nFuck a dream.<\/p>\n

_____________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Judy Wilson is originally from Virginia. Her poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in numerous literary journals. She has received a number of writing awards including the Southern Literary Festival Award for Best Short Fiction, the Joan Johnson Writing Award, the Henfield Foundation\u2019s Transatlantic Review Award, and a Truman Capote Fellowship. Her book Trespass and other stories was published in 2011. She is also the founder and editor of Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art & Thought. She lives and writes in Minnesota, sparing time to teach at Southwest Minnesota State University. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Decay Perplexed, he stares at her standing stunted in his row yellowed needles dropping on the ground around his feet. He thought he took good care of her. When she\u2019s felled he\u2019ll see the heartwood rings of age, thinned by drought and find a core of rotting passion that gave its sap to scarred carvings\u2014 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3447","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3447","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3447"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3447\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3447"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3447"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3447"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}