31
Vo l . 6 N o . 1
Ron McFarland
Poems as Lovely as Trees Teacher told them each to write a poem on trees. Some of them wrote with a vengeance born of the fear of parental censure, some from a sense of quiet desperation, many on impulse, a few from love, though not so often the love of words. Lacuna Reflects
Douglas Yates
David McElroy
Ugly Lovers making whoopee in the dark contend with latent beauty, grunt by grunt, groan by groan, on a level playing field equally blind, each a black blank. Hips and hills, blankets bunched in glory, legs and arms, fractals that branch and branch, the slow work of birth begins with a shiver in the sensate nerve. Let us praise now the misshapened, the roly poly, the puffy, the boney, snaggled, pocked, hairy-backed, flat-chested, beer-bellied, bald, knockkneed, weak-chinned, wall-eyed wonder of us. Praise now the gutsy art of desire in the bow-legged bull and cow of us.
Teacher told them to illustrate their work. They must use their imagination. They must do their best to think like specific trees: think like an oak, like a maple shedding its leaves, like larch, white pine, willow beside a slow stream. Teacher told them they must reach high, walked them around the block for inspiration. Lily pinched Aidan and made him cry. Mia slapped Ben because she really liked him. Mason said nothing because he secretly loved Lily and Mia. Then it started to rain. Hard. Teacher told them she would have their poems displayed at the county fair so everyone could see and admire. They must do their best. Trees soon swept over their fourth-grade world like skyscrapers in seven out of thirty-six poems. The judge awarded each one a blue ribbon.
Wheelbarrow me to the dance under the tree by the tavern. Turn around, turn around, bark shins, stub toes, eat chicken, and steal my watch. Barf in a barrel and call me honey. If painters paint us show the brush strokes, bristle tracks, and thumb smudge, our nicks and knocks. Let mudslide oils beget our boys and girls.
Elizabeth L Thompson