| InterBoard Poetry Competition | |
A HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN WEST, PART VII MANHATTAN SKYLINE
Alex Stolis
(The Melic Review RoundTable)
’Juanita was driving, she told me she was the seventh
daughter of a seventh son as if that was supposed
to scare me. The ocean was so close we could feel
the salt in the breeze as it whipped through the wing
window. I didn’t ever want to stop and my thoughts fell
back to the Hotel Allesandra— she had a way that made
yesterday seem like it hadn’t even happened yet.
I swear she could read my mind the way she touched
my arm then whispered if man is five then the devil
is six. Our money was running low and I never blinked
an eye while she told tales of what was around the next
curve— she tucked her hand under her hair, waited
for me to get nervous. All I wanted was to borrow
a piece of freedom from the past until I could feel
wet sand crunch under my boots. Not once did she
mention the sadness that got caught between the tread
and spit out into the desert. I know now she could tell
the future— she just wanted to break all the rules.
Bernard Henrie
(The Melic Review RoundTable)
The first clues to your identity
are in the preserved photographs.
Garden pictorial, seed and leaf.
I can almost smell your hair,
almost feel the orange squash
and buds where you lie down.
Muddied root, moist garland
fixed in your wet dark hair.
Resting bench, climbing trellis.
Questions from the rasping press,
Gasps from the surging crowd.
No interviews today.
Available light, fixing tray
and washing bath.
Photographed like this:
A bird, the breath half-expelled.
A single swan, the lower body
rusted into the lake.
No eye contact.
No personal questions.
Padding horse, lacquered carriage,
yellow street lamps and lighted
store fronts, outdoor tables
More interior shots:
Barefoot with a private
gleaming arch. Half-smile
into the champagne glass.
High strung. Painted lips,
satin peignoir, folds covering
the sheer leg and curved back,
one mule on, one shoe
one mule on, one shoe
misplaced. Vintage 1956.
Later:
Camera tripods collapsed,
lights and fans in crates.
The crew and lackeys ushered out.
Rooms empty and doors close.
The hunting cat smiles in sleep.
No interviews this time.
Upper Manhattan yawns
and dims. Cabs run
without yellow lights.
Silhouette on a 7th floor,
Owlish light and ticking clock,
one bare leg tucked under,
cool to the touch
in the smudged dawn.
Black slip, reading a serious book.
Shining Polaris, hooded lid,
blue dust at the resting eye,
aquiline nose, cheeks
rested from quarry marble.
Sheen from your face
lifting in shimmering mirage.
Wild blossoms by delivery,
a final black and white photo
the face and stem leaning
south into the new December.
No questions at this time please.
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