The Bookends Review

A title:
when it comes  
the poem will come too.  
Where does he look?  
Inside?  
Outside?  
All the world around?  
Searching  
for a title,  
for a theme.  
Desire is present  
but no direction.  
A poet in search of a title  
is a sad, pathetic thing. 
Does he search  
through ancient tomes?  
Or current fads?  
Or some time in between?


dlh…

– Duane L. Herrmann…

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We funneled independently through the horde of mouth-breathers, school bell releasing us from monotonous lessons we’d mastered before the classes even began. Like a well-tuned machine we threaded expediently and stepped lightly, dodging shoulder throwing jocks and snickering goths and jazz handing theater kids. Our destination awaited us, a physical and mental safe haven: Mr. Pruitt’s classroom. Chess club.

We arrived within seconds of each other, chemistry posters on the wall welcoming us and promising a mental workout. After the day we’d all had, like every other day in public school, it was a relief. Immediately we got to work setting up the game. Kevin tossed three vinyl chessboards on the tables, unrolling them and checking for wrinkles. Ian laid out the clocks. David dropped bags of white and black pieces on each board.…

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Doorbell. Chimes came from two long brass tubes. Partially enclosed in an arched wall area, they looked pretty even when silent.  A salesman was welcomed inside; he was offering sets of either Encyclopedia Britannica or Comptons. My mother invited him into the dining room, then poured coffee into a China cup she placed on a saucer. He sipped as I looked at the two ‘samples’ and knew which was the one I’d actually use: Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia.  Britannica was first issued in 1768 so definitely stood the ‘test of time’, as some teachers often expressed, the  Compton’s, which debuted in 1922, got ordered.  The salesman put the top back on his liquid ink pen, and handed my mother an invoice explaining when my complete set would be delivered.…

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            Morning practices were always hard to stomach. Somewhat slowly, I made my way up to the big field at Parson’s. The sun, weak and silver, seemed to have gotten stuck about a quarter of the way up the flypaper sky. I’d left my hat in Hutch’s dad’s Cherokee, so I borrowed a back-up from the bin—a big rubber tub Hollings set outside his office—a tub that, along with extra hats, held practice jerseys, belts, and even one or two pairs of socks for those of us that, as Hollings said, might forget our hands if they weren’t attached to our wrists.

            I always remembered my hands, but I grabbed a back-up this or that from the bin more often than I cared to admit.

            As I approached the diamond, I noticed Hollings was already there busily arranging tees against the fence that ran from the end of the first-base dugout to the right-field corner.…

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A diorama of function, all clockwork and organ.
……………Transparency means the light is bending.
Damn this gravity. Suspension is spirit’s legless shadow,
……………At least here in this hall. A woman, remembering
Something she cannot name, wanders as of seeking
……………Light. This is how shadow destroys itself.
Through an open window. As she falls, a silver spoon
……………Spins a web of light from her pocket. The trees
Do not understand this broken kite. This bitter copper
……………Water. Since the first time she fell, I have taken
The dead inside of me nightly. Spoken the transposed
……………Tongue of mirrors. She is not the first
Of the living to disappear. The first of my children, now
……………A blur of movement under water
Where there is no water.…

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Every morning and evening, I trace the same path clockwise starting from the dogwood tree and ending at the chain link fence in the neighboring apartment’s shadow. The walk takes roughly ten minutes depending on the vagaries of Olivia’s bowels, which I confess to knowing better than the amount of my dwindling savings or the time since I last saw a friend or went out on a date.

I should mention Olivia is a brown and silver-haired pointer named after her striking olive-green eyes. Those are the first things that anyone notices about her, or me for that matter. We answered the ad for a quiet and respectful tenant, qualities I prized most in myself, and moved into the small one-bedroom the following week. Once the hour became late, I took a break from unpacking and grabbed Olivia’s leash.…

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The beachgoers in Lake Farley knew they’d do well to avoid Earline. By now she was a familiar, if unfortunate, staple of the town. Wild-eyed and manic, her prematurely graying hair flying frizzy around her gaunt face, she could be found each day prowling the sand with bloody ankles and a beat-up metal detector. They knew her at the pawn shop just as well. Every afternoon just before closing, she’d come on in and empty a raggedy old Crown Royal bag onto the glass display case with that day’s findings. Mostly that metal detector of hers picked up bottle caps, broken bits of old belt buckles, pull tabs from cans of pop, and other bits and bobs of uselessness. Earline would pitch every last one of them as priceless treasure.…

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