Black marigolds by John Woods

By John Woods

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Page 28 His eyes burn from smoke and stage lights. Two more sets of C& W; then he can call home about the fever and the furnace. He stands under breath-feathering air and ice-far stars, seeing chain lightning behind the mountains, his fretting fingers tingling with six string grooves. Inside, the amp's ready light glows through the smoke, Strohs float down the table of intermittent passion, now without its song. The guitar breathes slowly. The guitar breathes slowly for all of us. Page 29 Summoned to the Sexual Senate Out of a face like an old newel post, this senator has proclaimed that taxation begins with foreplay, citizenship with orgasm, and states' rights with mitosis.

I give you another birth. That child you planned for pestle, pulpit, podium, stadium cracks open his carapace and throws his leathers against the motel wall. Outside, the stretch limo lowers its eyes, and the groupies gently raise the Godhead before they take home their overworked hair.  Mother, your son is between rock and a hard place. 3. Behind the Elkshead Inn, father, near Colter Bay, your son pours a gourd of pump water down his shirt. Page 28 His eyes burn from smoke and stage lights. Two more sets of C& W; then he can call home about the fever and the furnace.

Grandpa told us we have promises to keep, so the sun opened its busy stores. The rose bowl of the TV stuttered on. Half our sugar maple, trebled in gravity, lay in the stiff, gray grass of the front lawn. I could see through the ice to its rude mottle. It is difficult to look out from such beauty. Page 24 Milk, Turning Their udders are swollen and they look back along their hulls for the horn-handed man to palm their milk and take the pails. They have not heard of cheese or oat flakes, or of silver tankers burning the mile markers.

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Black marigolds by John Woods
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