Poetry

June 17, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Gilbert Garcin

 

By

Lucy M. Logsdon

 

 

In the Land that Forgot Respect

 

 

Here, in the land of manure and plenty,

everything’s lovely as a CG film.

The grasses so green, they pop.

The corn so thick, you could

climb it. The air so fresh.

You get the idea.

But what if we are too much?

Squint. There in the afternoon

sparkle, beside a giant bag of chips,

under the extra large pickle jars,

see the misty shimmer of doubt? Sniff.

There’s a pungent odor,

the fruit right before it sours,

goes south. Too much ease–

flip flopping down the aisles.

Like a fatted pig. Like a great, flapping belly.

 

No one’s peering over their shoulder,

watching for the neon warning:

your luck is running out. No one’s prepping

the escape route, the rutted, worn one

with the hoof prints right down the middle.

(Every good cow knows her way out.)

How’s this for an invite to the obliteration?

For the murderer coming through

the unlocked door, the shooter

in your living room. The virus, the bomb,

the bullet. The moment before

what- have- we- done?

Should we worry more, double check the lock?

Nothing is this easy. Watch the horizon,

see the roiling dust. That rough beast

again. How will we greet him

this time? Gold, gifts, guns, denial.

Or padded bed, juicy roast,

and warmed oil to brush his coat

as you wait to rub those ancient ears,

then floss the forbidden teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Bargaining with my Forest’s Fox

 

 

Red fox, kill or kit in your teeth,

you move so you are always just

on vision’s edge—trotting towards

the trees. You sense how much

I want to see you, you sense

my damned domestication.

We both know it’s wrong.

A major mistake occurred in my making.

Red fox: I need to be you—bones and muscle

draped with ragged fur, savage pointed teeth,

impeccable ears, light foot.

Scent. Pulse. Blood lust.

The place I work might miss

the switch. No more remediation,

obedience training. Their written reprimands,

crumpled, scat-smeared could waft

away, white birds in wind.

Like doves. A pair. To tame

the female of a species,

corner, maim, or kill her mate.

She’ll lose her footing, circle back

Confused. She’ll whine,

paw the ground.

 

In my office, I jiggle the mouse

uselessly. Authorities, once trusted,

have fired my husband. My office chair

spins me. The walls close in.

We’ll both turn animal now,

flee into poverty. As for the students,

we’ll leave one letter—boldly

printed, taped to a bathroom door:

Do not trust your education. Instinct

bears better results. Assess the data.

Run the numbers. Sniff the wind.

If you catch the reek of disaster,

if your eyes tear from burning debt,

if you are told to remain calm,

you are already in the storm’s eye.

You’ve become the bottom line.

Already spent. All mythologies

point to this: never trust one holding

a ledger, an arrow, a gun. Gods will

be gods. Cruel, vengeful. Bored.

Often dumb. Howl all you want.

No one will listen, except those

in the forest, ready for the wounded,

and their bright

blood trail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucy M. Logsdon

Lucy M. Logsdon’s work has appeared in such publications as Iodine, Literary Orphans, Poet Lore, Southern Poetry Review, Sixfold, Seventeen, Rose Red Review, Conclave, Drafthorse, Heron Tree, Right Hand Pointing, Rust & Moth and Gingerbread Literary Review. She has received a Macdowell Writers Colony fellowship, and taught at such places as The Frost Place and the 63rd Street Y. She received her MFA from Columbia University. Now back in rural America, she raises chickens, ducks and other occasional creatures with her husband. Recently on “break” from academia, she/I have started an online store, LLCollector.com where I will begin featuring poetry books and broadsides along with my current collectibles–soon. I am also tutoring, conducting poetry workshops and explaining to past students what happens when pedagogy runs amok.

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