Friday, March 24, 2017

Poems I Admire #29

Flowers
John Stupp

Each day
an old Bulgarian
walked between tables
at lunch time in the cafeteria
playing chess against all comers
you couldn’t hear anything
with all the noise
and the stink
it didn’t matte
he moved quickly
against Sicilian Defenses
and the French
and the King’s Gambit Declined
for a couple of bucks
he held a sandwich in one hand
and said very little
a chess master
before the Second World War
he found himself in Cleveland
casting engine blocks
but get this
his daughter was a nurse in the plant hospital
she smelled like flowers
like wild honeysuckle
in this godforsaken place
one year she took a piece of metal
from my eye
the pain was great
she helped me up
then moved away from board to board
quickly fixing everyone else
quiet as her father
even if you begged her


First appeared in Off the Coast – Summer 2016

John Stupp is the author of Advice from the Bed of a Friend by Main Street Rag. His new book Pawleys Island will be published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. Recent poetry has appeared or will appear in The Greensboro Review, Poet Lore, The American Poetry Journal, Into the Void (Ireland), LitMag, The Tishman Review and Slipstream. His poem “Goat Island” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2016. He lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Wicker Woman of Wikiup Junction


She had cowboy eyes as deep and dry as the canyon-
cracks splitting her still-nimble fingers. The scorched
skin hanging from her face was an aged bronze sag.
She spoke through heavily-coated-with-lipstick lips,

and I huddled around her pretending to be warmed
by the divinity of having someone hear me confess.
Her laughter was a high-desert snow but her breath

was the must of hamper towels. She told stories
the way wicker women stare: through a thick haze
of antipathy. Sweat would drip between both eyebrow
grooves until she’d daub her face, pick up her tale,

and drop it exhausted as a burlap sack full of beans.
But whenever I’d close my eyes to blink, I’d see her
gentle hands on fevered faces, blowing hot thermals

of breath the way heat flows through canyons or words
snap into the language of abandonment – as if I needed
altogether unwanted scribbled into something legible.
There were times, though, her eyes became a grey sea

seeing angels, the sweetness of dreams, Christmas trees,
hospice, and the foggy goodbye glass of backseats.
They’d roll behind her head as if she were brewing coffee

or frying bacon or remembering everything. I asked her once
if I could be excused. She just kissed me on the salty nape
of my neck and tasted, I think, a certain readiness for fresh air
and all that would someday be.



Included in my chapbook "The Allness of Everything" (Maverick Duck Press)

(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)