CL Bledsoe
The Yips
after a line by Fitzgerald
It takes two to make an accident.
One to hold the map, the other
to work the radio. Someone napping
in the back seat and dreaming
of the World Series. I made a detour
for my good intentions. It was you
and me, the ants, a tree with our initials
carved in at the only rest stop with clean
toilets on the East Coast. Sobering up
at the gas station. Funyuns and Beef jerky.
Buying scratch offs and forgetting quarters.
I stole the keys. Drove us back to your
place. Night blindness and pedestrians.
It meant so much to get it right.
Inside, it was all Hoarders on A&E.
Lingerie the mice had gotten into.
You made me stand outside the door while
you tried to find the couch. You don’t
understand. I have to get home
tonight. You have no ambition beyond
the flowers dying on your coffee table.
Thunderstorm
Back in the days when I was a thunderstorm,
there was brief lightning after every
utterance. I fell and fell, water carpeting
my apartment, making all the boards curl.
Nothing could last without turning
into ruin. I felt no sun burning
through the haze. No warmth except
in my rain. Children blinked to see
me. The old just shook their heads
from their porches. Who would take the time
to run through my onslaught in the hopes
of finding warmth inside? It’s only water
in there, the odd fish I’ve carried with me
since childhood. I waited for overcast
days when I could lie in bed and stay
out of the air. The wind was my only friend.
I dreamed of someday drying out, finding
someone else to fall on.
Delilah
She was the best of us, secret
as an egg. One leg in her pants
and the other in the stars. Like all
of us, she only laughed at the absurdity
of existence or cats playing piano.
Like all of us, she just wanted to help.
But they don’t make potato salad
like they used to anymore. A hair
driven through a tree by heavy winds.
Somewhere that used to be fun done
up in church slacks. I miss talking
about the weather and really meaning
it, the correct portion of vermouth.
It’s only going to get better if you
give it enough time. That’s what
they all say, she used to say. Right
before changing the channel.
Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than thirty books, including the poetry collections Riceland, The Bottle Episode, and his newest, Having a Baby to Save a Marriage, as well as his latest novels If You Love Me, You’ll Kill Eric Pelkey and The Devil and Ricky Dan. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his kid.
