Poetry By
Susan Zenker
Published on: 9/19/2011
At Mount Carmel
She wants a poem that fills a glass baking dish crusted to the rim with green granny apples maple syrup cinnamon sticks orange rind. She wants a poem that satisfies as an iced berry tea frosted to the brim with sweet lemon wine and tart nectarines. She wants a poem to enlighten- like a child's eyes observing a swallowtail for the very first time effortlessly knowing what God is and what peace feels like. She wants a poem that can raise factory workers from the dead, her Teresita standing at this fence gazing at November's moon angelic and golden, healing. Her sister dressed and fed, any place where the twin cities' regrets condense, vanish like dew on morning blades of grass and barefoot the two of them trample death's surprise holding hands and dancing.
Published on: 9/19/2011
Krylon QuickDry, Battleship Gray
On the curb at Hunter and Wilcox on the pay phone at Michael's Crafts on the bridge marker, 15'11" along the bench at the Baptist Church back of Benny's, doors and dumpsters, stop sign, mailbox, brick wall, fence, on a windshield scratched in rain dust -- you can't catch me -- chicken scratchings. Something torrid, territorial, bursts the paint right out of that can -- the secret desire to touch all things living and not like a dog lifting its leg like a sunflower stubbornly pushing and shoving and kicking its way through a crack in sidewalk cement. They are out there. Create create. In the middle of the night while I sleep in cotton and dream of baby's breath and the clock on the wall needs winding, they are out there in the painless hours before the dawn I fear the moonflowers tiptoe fatherless through darkened alleys spray-painting I ache I ache.
Published on: 9/19/2011
Reflections on Carlsbad Caverns
Before the time when Patience had a name when fingers of the wind sought company, a single drip burst through the hardened clay, and drip by drip in puddles trickled deep from snow which melted in the mountain pass, diluted down a crag like melted wax. The gnat the bird the butterfly all laid their eggs on cactus roots and spun their nests while through the layered limestone droplets splashed: rains molding bedrock into living caves. In drip by drip and crack by crack it fell-- this voice of time a drop like wet shellac. Then came the men who'd link the railroad tracks, who from the breathing rock chipped metal veins. They slid into the caves, ropes strapped with lamps, to chisel mica flecks and bat remains. They cracked the earth and seeped into its flesh fell victim to the drip of steadfastness. Those mines now rot; wet sculptor of the gorge still etches temples along the canyon path, cascades its ice down trails with chiseled order, its drip and glitter, constant--dwarf a man. Vague tracks a pack rat's patter left behind, reminders: none defy the craft of time.
Published on: 9/19/2011
Bury Me Standing --for C.W. Jacobs
Bury me standing in a Fort Bliss plot white dress uniform nothing fancy, no viewing. I've seen too many funerals, too many open caskets-- the dead are nothing like the living. Bury me in Fort Bliss under a crisp blue sky in the shade of the Franklins away from lords and cops. here-- where tanks plow furrows in the desert, light night raids in tunnels while helicopters watch over border patrol agents electric fences, sniffing dogs and Minutemen-- though none can deter the blurring of boundaries or mixing of races, the inevitable blending of skin colors, languages, and faces. Bury me in El Paso I wish to die now though I never killed another human being, I prayed for combat-- too many open caskets, curious viewers. and the dead, thank god, are nothing like the living.
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