Lola Haskins
3 poems
**
The Sunset
When it began, we thought it was just what the sun did every day, folding itself into the drawer of the world. We went to the field behind the house so the trees would not block our view, and there they were, molten flowers surging across the sky. And though it was only dust, our hearts slowed for it as if we were in a boat drifting downstream and had stopped to lift it free.
We stood there, side by side. You took my married hand, and, because you were holding it tightly, my ring began to harden on my finger as across the open sky we witnessed that changing bloom. I want this moment never to end, you said. You were a fool when you said that.
**
It
..........Not-its cross in the air like twilight bats. The slowest counts to ten, her face hidden in her hands. And what when she finishes? Will she part the azaleas one by one, finding only pink wilted trumpets there? Will she crawl under the empty house, where wasps lie hatching in their paper tunnels? Will she cast door-shaped light into the tool shed? Will she persist until she stalks the cherry bush as her friend holds her breath? Will she lift a step to find her webby sister? Will she creep around the woodpile to spot her brother, curled behind precarious logs? Or will she go instead to her room under the eaves? Does she know what she has? Does she know she can make them hide forever?
**
The Fruit Detective
On the table, there are traces of orange blood. There is also a straight mark, probably made by some kind of knife. The detective suspects that by now the orange has been sectioned, but there is always hope until you’re sure. He takes samples. Valencia. This year’s crop. Dum-de-dum-dum
The detective puts out an APB. Someone with a grudge against fruit. Suspect is armed and should be considered dangerous. He cruises the orchards. Nothing turns up except a few bruised individuals, probably died of falls.
A week passes. There are front page pictures of the orange. No one has seen it. They try putting up posters around town. Still nothing. The detective‘s phone rings. Yes, he says. And Yes, thanks. I’ll be right over. Another orange. This time they find the peel. It was brutally torn and tossed in a wastebasket. Probably never knew what hit it, says the detective, looking sadly at the remains.
There is a third killing and a fourth. People are taking fresh looks at their neighbors. They are keeping their oranges indoors. There is fear about, that with oranges off the streets the killer may turn to apples or bananas. The detective needs a breakthrough. The phone rings. If you want to know who killed the oranges, come to the phone booth at the corner of 4th and Market. Twenty minutes, the voice says.
The detective hurries on his coat. When he gets to the booth, the phone is already ringing. It is the egg. I did it, says the egg, and I’ll do it again. The detective is not surprised. No one else could have been so hard-boiled.
**
return to sawbuck 2.2
**
Lola Haskins’ poetry advice book, Not Feathers Yet: A Beginner’s Guide to the Poetic Life (Backwaters Press) appeared in 2007, as did a collection
of her fables about women, with images by Maggie Taylor, Solutions Beginning with A (Modernbook). Her most recent of eight books of poems
is a new and selected called Desire Lines (BOA, 2004). Her most recent
collaborative work is a performance with dance and cello called Of Air and the Water.
**
The Sunset
When it began, we thought it was just what the sun did every day, folding itself into the drawer of the world. We went to the field behind the house so the trees would not block our view, and there they were, molten flowers surging across the sky. And though it was only dust, our hearts slowed for it as if we were in a boat drifting downstream and had stopped to lift it free.
We stood there, side by side. You took my married hand, and, because you were holding it tightly, my ring began to harden on my finger as across the open sky we witnessed that changing bloom. I want this moment never to end, you said. You were a fool when you said that.
**
It
..........Not-its cross in the air like twilight bats. The slowest counts to ten, her face hidden in her hands. And what when she finishes? Will she part the azaleas one by one, finding only pink wilted trumpets there? Will she crawl under the empty house, where wasps lie hatching in their paper tunnels? Will she cast door-shaped light into the tool shed? Will she persist until she stalks the cherry bush as her friend holds her breath? Will she lift a step to find her webby sister? Will she creep around the woodpile to spot her brother, curled behind precarious logs? Or will she go instead to her room under the eaves? Does she know what she has? Does she know she can make them hide forever?
**
The Fruit Detective
On the table, there are traces of orange blood. There is also a straight mark, probably made by some kind of knife. The detective suspects that by now the orange has been sectioned, but there is always hope until you’re sure. He takes samples. Valencia. This year’s crop. Dum-de-dum-dum
The detective puts out an APB. Someone with a grudge against fruit. Suspect is armed and should be considered dangerous. He cruises the orchards. Nothing turns up except a few bruised individuals, probably died of falls.
A week passes. There are front page pictures of the orange. No one has seen it. They try putting up posters around town. Still nothing. The detective‘s phone rings. Yes, he says. And Yes, thanks. I’ll be right over. Another orange. This time they find the peel. It was brutally torn and tossed in a wastebasket. Probably never knew what hit it, says the detective, looking sadly at the remains.
There is a third killing and a fourth. People are taking fresh looks at their neighbors. They are keeping their oranges indoors. There is fear about, that with oranges off the streets the killer may turn to apples or bananas. The detective needs a breakthrough. The phone rings. If you want to know who killed the oranges, come to the phone booth at the corner of 4th and Market. Twenty minutes, the voice says.
The detective hurries on his coat. When he gets to the booth, the phone is already ringing. It is the egg. I did it, says the egg, and I’ll do it again. The detective is not surprised. No one else could have been so hard-boiled.
**
return to sawbuck 2.2
**
Lola Haskins’ poetry advice book, Not Feathers Yet: A Beginner’s Guide to the Poetic Life (Backwaters Press) appeared in 2007, as did a collection
of her fables about women, with images by Maggie Taylor, Solutions Beginning with A (Modernbook). Her most recent of eight books of poems
is a new and selected called Desire Lines (BOA, 2004). Her most recent
collaborative work is a performance with dance and cello called Of Air and the Water.
