Mark Neely
3 poems
**
Ice Capade
At Christmas there’s Katherine
skating on the frozen lake. Great.
Like I need to see those legs
in tights, the hot blood
rushing her cheeks,
or her hair’s wild brush
strokes tapering
to rays of evening
as she draws her oval
in the ice, her face
coming out of shadow
again and again, too bright.
**
Fishing with Lorenzo
I swear that old dinghy was more duct tape than boat, but somehow its wobbling and Lorenzo’s whiskey listing balanced out. He sat in the bow and waved his pole at surrounding trees, which reminded him of certain enemies, like Dirty Jim who had taken Lorenzo’s first wife on a business trip and never brought her back, then somehow sold his house out from under him while Lorenzo was still inside, sleeping off a doozy.
He took the cinderblock he used for an anchor, dumped it overboard with a giant splash, then started in on instructions for the perfect martini—Lorenzo’s method was to wink at the vermouth, then fill the icy shaker up with gin and pour into the largest glass you could find. In a pinch, or on a desert island, you could skip the glass and pour gin straight down your throat.
Mostly he fished around the cooler for another beer, but he finally caught a good-sized crappie. He took out a pair of rusty fingernail scissors, cut the line, and the fish went weaving off into the murk, trailing a foot of crystal thread. Mercury, he said. You could take your temperature with the little fuckers. Lorenzo said he wouldn’t feed those fish to Dirty Jim himself.
When the beer was gone he curled up on the boat’s wet floor and went to sleep. I rowed the bucket home.
**
I Dream Lorenzo’s Rest
The river whips up to meet him
and he falls through outer space,
fish spraying away from the car
like dull stars. Forces equalize.
Water rises until the room’s
unlivable. Lorenzo doesn’t struggle
in the dream. He smiles and takes
deep breaths of water,
long drinks.
.................He told me once
that life was a vacation
from working the mines of heaven,
or holding up the sky, or pushing
some damn boulder up forever.
That when we turned ourselves in
to the afterlife’s authorities,
we’d all be sorry we wasted life
with work and empty wishes,
and didn’t have more fun.
.................................His ghost
breaches like a whale
and blows a spout of light
through a hole the moon makes
on the river’s surface.
.............................What to say
at such a burial? That he knew some joy
and with superhuman charm
could lift an hour or two out of gloom’s
dark well. That he never yearned
much except for what he got
and when he drove off this bridge,
he didn’t bring anyone else along.
**
return to sawbuck 4.2
**
Mark Neely's poems have appeared in Boulevard, Indiana Review, Southeast Review, Failbetter, and elsewhere. He teaches at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, where he lives with his wife and two children. His website is www.markneely.com.
**
Ice Capade
At Christmas there’s Katherine
skating on the frozen lake. Great.
Like I need to see those legs
in tights, the hot blood
rushing her cheeks,
or her hair’s wild brush
strokes tapering
to rays of evening
as she draws her oval
in the ice, her face
coming out of shadow
again and again, too bright.
**
Fishing with Lorenzo
I swear that old dinghy was more duct tape than boat, but somehow its wobbling and Lorenzo’s whiskey listing balanced out. He sat in the bow and waved his pole at surrounding trees, which reminded him of certain enemies, like Dirty Jim who had taken Lorenzo’s first wife on a business trip and never brought her back, then somehow sold his house out from under him while Lorenzo was still inside, sleeping off a doozy.
He took the cinderblock he used for an anchor, dumped it overboard with a giant splash, then started in on instructions for the perfect martini—Lorenzo’s method was to wink at the vermouth, then fill the icy shaker up with gin and pour into the largest glass you could find. In a pinch, or on a desert island, you could skip the glass and pour gin straight down your throat.
Mostly he fished around the cooler for another beer, but he finally caught a good-sized crappie. He took out a pair of rusty fingernail scissors, cut the line, and the fish went weaving off into the murk, trailing a foot of crystal thread. Mercury, he said. You could take your temperature with the little fuckers. Lorenzo said he wouldn’t feed those fish to Dirty Jim himself.
When the beer was gone he curled up on the boat’s wet floor and went to sleep. I rowed the bucket home.
**
I Dream Lorenzo’s Rest
The river whips up to meet him
and he falls through outer space,
fish spraying away from the car
like dull stars. Forces equalize.
Water rises until the room’s
unlivable. Lorenzo doesn’t struggle
in the dream. He smiles and takes
deep breaths of water,
long drinks.
.................He told me once
that life was a vacation
from working the mines of heaven,
or holding up the sky, or pushing
some damn boulder up forever.
That when we turned ourselves in
to the afterlife’s authorities,
we’d all be sorry we wasted life
with work and empty wishes,
and didn’t have more fun.
.................................His ghost
breaches like a whale
and blows a spout of light
through a hole the moon makes
on the river’s surface.
.............................What to say
at such a burial? That he knew some joy
and with superhuman charm
could lift an hour or two out of gloom’s
dark well. That he never yearned
much except for what he got
and when he drove off this bridge,
he didn’t bring anyone else along.
**
return to sawbuck 4.2
**
Mark Neely's poems have appeared in Boulevard, Indiana Review, Southeast Review, Failbetter, and elsewhere. He teaches at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, where he lives with his wife and two children. His website is www.markneely.com.
Labels: 4.2, mark neely, summer 2010
