Press 53

A sit-down-chat-loving publisher of short fiction and poetry collections, located in Winston-Salem, NC.

Poetry Wednesday

Wendy Willis just released her debut collection of poetry, Blood Sisters of the Republic, this fall. To give you an idea of how essential this collection is, here is a poem excerpted from it.

Economies

1.

I was born under the sign of the pulp mill.

Learned to love it long after owl wars

shirred shut the shades.  Baby, I know onions

can keep up to six months, but I can’t say what burns—

except tall grass & skinks.  In this town,

false pregnancies are common among men.

2.

Answer me this:  Should I measure my days

in un-ripe peaches and nail clippings?  In screens

slamming or bees dropping?   There are field burns

& pandemics to consider.    And how do teacup

tempests stack up against the price of oil?  In the end,

it’s velocity that divides the sheep from the goats.

3.

Blueberries take two years to bear so I guess I’ll kiss

the Catholic lawyer-poet direct on the lips.

But, at least it’s April and the peas are in. 

What powers the night light & the Ouija board? 

Holy Mary, mother of God, crushing grapes, still

pink-lipped and blessed among women.

4.

A bird in the hand is worth two

in the bush unless the bush is burning

or the hand is grubbing or the bird

has learned to bite the hand

that feeds it (or the right

to remain silent).

5.

Is it beeswax or lye soap? Cattle futures

or cat calls? What then is the future

of the peach orchard or snow out of season?

What of the baby’s nap or cradle cap?

Which storm gains & which shore loses?

What seeps? By that I mean, what hurts?

6.

I’m saving soup beans for the worst case,

but what do I know of loss?  My daughters

can’t tell time, and I neither admit nor deny

kissing lawyers.  Or poets.  Or skinks. 

I avoided greenchain with skinny ankles

& a bird in the hand.  Baby, open your ears now.

7.

Don’t cook chicory in an iron pan. 

It blacks.  The sheik hangs men, but the state

of Oregon Arkansas West Virginia 

Texas shoves a needle.  I hear dandelion root

purges the liver.   I wonder

if it works on hangmen or mules.

8.

My babies can’t tell time, but this state’s prisoners

are tinkering the clocks.  A slave & a mule

are turned back on account of a false blue

warmspell.  The border man sings: 

Yes, sir.  Yes, sir.  Three bags full.  

I’ll give up maps for love.

9.

The eight-year-old’s belly is tight as a button. 

Cover your ears now.  A book in the hand

is no different than sleeping timber rattlers

or half-hoarded auto bodies.  False springs false

pregnancies false ceilings false confessions false

comparisons falsies.  Baby, how can I tally that?

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