kitchenpoem #2
if you’re wondering how to
get rid of a pesky housefly
turn off all the lights open
the fridge door he’ll fly right into
the sudden brightness slam the
door later on open it cautiously
in his numbed state he’s easily
dispatched with a napkin but
be sure you’ve covered the butter
my grampa had the idea earlier
his cows entered the round barn
through a dim passage a hanging
blanket brushed the flies off
their backs
the only light a bright slit
overhead
they flew up crawled through
into a closed room all windows
no way out no sense to crawl back
through the now dark slit
a farmhand
would sometimes enter the
room and
shovel up a bushel of desiccated
bodies not many of us have cows
these days but most of us
have fridges
maybe I should send this
household
hint to heloise I wonder if
she pays
© Jacqueline Jackson 2006
Years ago, when I was living in Chicago, I came home to my apartment and knew that I shouldn’t enter the courtyard. I could have gone to my landlord’s door, a few feet away, and asked him to walk me past the man who was lingering in the shadows. The urge to do that was strong but not strong enough. I’d left my kids alone for five minutes to run out to the store for milk. I was pushing my luck with that five minutes and didn’t want to make it six. And I didn’t want to ask my landlord for any favors — he had a tendency to brush his hand across my butt and generally made me feel creepy. But I knew that the man in the courtyard didn’t belong there, and I knew I shouldn’t step into that entryway by myself. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did. It was just a simple mugging. Not murder. Not rape. It could have been worse, but it could have been avoided. Vera Herst’s poem describes the discomfort that results when it’s too late to say no. — Carol Manley, guest editor
Holy $#!@*
Claire the riding
instructor,
proverbial bat
out of hell,
is driving, towing
a horse trailer —
fully loaded.
No side mirror
on the left, halfway there
the right one falls off
I’m sticking my head
out the window
telling her when
to pull back
as she passes
car after car after car
on the two-lane
highway.
I’ll be amazed
if my mare ever loads
into a trailer
again.
Vera Herst of Springfield is a wild woman turned family woman. This is her first published poem.
Send submissions to Jacqueline Jackson Presents People’s Poetry to poetry@illinoistimes.com or to Illinois Times, P.O. Box 5256, Springfield, IL 62705.
This article appears in Oct 12-18, 2006.
