yarn woven monkey

he weaved his way
for an artificial life
consisting of his
arms,
legs,
torso,
and head–
save for a plastic
face that smiled
a hangdog grin
that disturbed
the other
children
at show and tell

proudly crowned
in his red fez with
golden trimming,
his matching vest
revealing a chest
full of curled yarn–

the grin became
more ominous
over the years,
after several
exhalations of
marijuana
staring at
it in the dark
in college

it smiled at me
throughout
my
hellish
and
unsuccessful
twenties,
so I put him
in a box
labeled
“danger”
and have
not glimpsed
into his
eyes since

Big Bear (1969)

the overexposed color
photographs display
grandpa’s tan muscles
gleaming in the
wild sunshine
grandma’s hair
wrapped in a
red bandana,
the curls of
her perm
drifting out
in the dry
summer wind

the kids in
their
blue eye shadow
and twelve-inch
heels
dance in the glow
of twilight,

off to the woods
with a bottle of
Thunderbird
and a tin
of reds and whites

they tell me
stories
of the summer
of 1969

chased by packs
of wolves in
the woods
behind the cabin
running in
twelve inch heels
and half-drunk
wine jugs
pills flying across
the grass

grandpa didn’t
drink,
didn’t smoke
didn’t drug
he just chopped
wood
and watched his
skin turn
several shades of
brown
unaware
of the wolves
chasing
the teenagers

wolves he
could surely
bite back

Sun Burn

early July sun
slowly baking the ivory
of our skins
as we play marco polo
and beach volley ball
bouncing off
the diving board
in oversized trunks

water to the surface
in a rolling dance

we spend
several afternoon hours
repeating this
and gently fall asleep
in our towels
on friendly beach chairs

waking up lobster red

the pain of our
scorched flesh
scraping between
our flabby thighs

over time, we grow bulbs
across our chests

that pop and dry

causing us to look like
human snowflakes
and we
scratch
an itch
we
can’t
satisfy

– Kevin Ridgeway