Combed by Crows poems
Dennis Camire
deerbrook editions
p u bl i sh e d b y Deerbrook Editions P.O. Box 542 Cumberland, ME 04021 www.deerbrookeditions.com issuu.com/deerbrookediitons first edition Š 2017 by Dennis Camire All rights reserved Page 95 constitutes an extension of this copyright page. ISBN:978-0-9975051-6-0 Book & cover design by Jeffrey Haste.
Contents
Ode to Teenagers’ Hairdos in June 11 Highly Autistic Bagboy Asking Out Check-out Girl 13 Watching the Man with No Arms Teach the Boy with No Arms How to Fish 14 Watching the First-time Seeing Eye-dog Trainer Part with Her First Dog 16 Retinitis Pigmentosa 18 Last Cut-throat Trout of the Season 20 Stephen Hawking at Zero Gravity 22 Retired Astronauts in Love 24 Stephen Hawking Talking 27 T he Dry Stone Waller Muses About Cosmology 29 T he Single Mother and the Meteor Shower 32 Teaching Simile at a Midwest University 34 For the Russian Rainbow Trout Farmer 37 Moose Ode 39 Widow Feeding Seagulls 40 For Earth Worms 42 T he Gardeners‘ Widows 44 For the Aging Flower Arranger 46 Ode to the Letter G 48 Trophy Lake Trout 51 Fishing Lures 53 Bioluminescing 55 Raindrop Ode 58 Ode to Lettuce 61 For the Giant Pumpkin Growers 65 Ode to Scarlet Runner Beans Running Up the Eight Foot Trellis 67 Observations on the Garden, Fourth of July 69 Upon Hearing that Bread is the Way Sun Enters the Body 71 T he Dry Stone Waller Revisits Spring’s Surfacing Fieldstones 73 T he Dragonfly Biologist Falling in Love 74 Ode to the Letter O 76 T he Baby Blue Whale’s Blues Solo 79 T he Song of Our Cells 80 Some Words on Birds and Borders 82 Two Birds Trapped in the Screened-in Porch 83 T he Glass Blower of Birds 85
Encounter With Roofer Ode to Happy T he Dry Stone Waller on the Major League Baseball Player Who, During His First Season, Left the Big Leagues to Return to Walling T he Dry Stone Waller Walling in the Old Town Cemetery For the Organ Donor’s Widow Meeting the Man Who Received Her Deceased Husband’s Corneas
87 88 90 91 92
Acknowledgments 95
I Beautiful Dying T hings
Ode to Teenagers’ Hairdos in June
Today the teens bouqueting faces From the gazebo’s railed vase Have hair shaped into flowers Whose Latin roots escape T he brain’s gray matter As this girl’s blue-highlighted curls Turn her into a psychedelic tulip And this boy’s orange and black-dyed spikes Morph him into the world’s tallest marigold Whose eyebrows dragonfly with delight. It's as though they’re playing out Some pagan ritual they intuit And the purple and green roots Have nothing to do with hormones rollorCoastering the cardiovascular— Or it’s as though the hair Literally has a mind of its own And will blossom its exotic beauty Despite how they might pass-out On the life raft of their lover's mattress. And today, with the yellow periscopes Of Russian sunflowers’ a month away And spring’s purple iris wrinkling Under dry, summer skies Even the mother with Down’s syndrome child in tow Slows to marvel At this Garden of Eden of Teens Before sitting by the river’s magic carpet Where she thinks her hair, soon, 11
Will be a strange off-gray or blue As she still cares for the son Who’ll never color his hair green T hough, in his fifties, likely, Still seduce her into this world's strange beauty T he way he always blossoms T hat same smile to each unexplained glory Which, maybe, she now realizes, Is the only flower any mother could desire Growing over her grave Under the iris blue sky T hat, too, on our best day Often feels like the perfect hairdo T hough held in place And fine-tooth-combed by crows . . .
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Severely Autistic Bagboy Asking Out Check-out Girl After she says “no” to “arcade games And ice cream cones,” she only longs for him To feel her heart breaking, too, in seeing How honesty isn’t proportionate to smarts As she lies about the college boyfriend Driving up for homecoming weekend And sees how his rejection hurts more Because he'll never letter in a sport Or French kiss a cheerleader under T he bleachers. And, when he’s then Apologizing for just wanting someone Smarter than himself, she just wants to know How to double-bag her own emotions As she feels so dumb for being the one Weeping at the end of this transaction And needing his shoulder to lean on Before accepting his offer to walk her To her car where he guides her into the Seat, she thinks, gently as a bag of groceries— As though he knows her empathy And kindness are so fragile from being Shaken from temperature-controlled aisles And he’s thinking of the widow, Mrs. Jones, Whose ice cream sometimes doesn't survive Her long, slow, drive home . . .
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Watching the Man with No Arms Teach the Boy with No Arms How to Fish With toes resembling fingers Of an ambidextrous masseuse, His left foot grips the pole While he sits on the beard of beach So, when the Bobber dimples Under with fish, He sets the hook with a karate kick While two right toes Reel in the largemouth, And the ten-year-old (Who’s soon to brood Over how it must feel To translate the Braille Of a woman’s body into the Tongue of each fingertip) Is impressed Over how this man suddenly makes arms seem Gratuitous— Claps his little foot soles Before stepping over T he scales of the Shimmering abdomen So the man’s toes can Tip-toe Down T he bass’s T hroat 14
To unfasten T he barbed Hook . . . And convincing him Self-esteem And upward mobility Have nothing to do With two good arms, Soon we’re seeing video Of the boy steering A two-wheeled bicycle With his mouth. But, it’s when we realize How an army of arms Aren’t enough to keep us Embraced to this sudden wild sense Of gratitude and reverence, T hat we embrace, paint Each other's back with Fingertips of touch, And, like the boy, hope We can learn to reel in Such a beautiful Frightened being.
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Watching the First-time Seeing Eye Dog Trainer Part with Her First Dog After three years of teaching T he Labrador to guide her through Subways, carnivals, and malls And discern which restroom Is male or female—just moments From losing the only roommate Who makes her feel safe From another attempted rape, It’s no wonder she takes solace In how the blind man can’t see T he tears irrigating her grieving face Or know her recurring dream Where her lab. retrieves his instinct To retrieve beautiful dying things And braves twenty miles of highway To lick her latte-flavored lips At the 4th street bookstore and cafe. Yes, suddenly so fetched by her affection For a companion who saw her through T he night of her sister’s suicide And who never said “let’s just be friends” T hose evenings he was the only one to call For a walk through the moon-frosted park, It’s not hard to see why she feels In need of guidance back to Her two-room, walk-up studio As, half-blinded by sorrow, 16
She tries exiting through the entrance T hen crossing against the light . . . On her way, she realizes, To weeks of freezing by the hydrant He always sniffed twice And seeing, as she slowly walks away And her tender memories won’t “sit And stay” despite her repeated entreaties, T hat, maybe, it’s this love Which always heels just behind us And, in the end my friend, Really is man’s/woman’s best friend.
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Retinitis Pigmentosa —for Rebecca Veeck and her parents Watching their child go blind T he parents quit six-figure incomes Cash in stocks and bonds, And give their daughter the gift Of composing a list of all she desires to see Before her vision is just the love child Of memory and imagination. And at eleven T he girl begins with the usual: Disney World, Old Faithful, the Statue of Liberty. But inspired by her parents’ PhD’s T he list soon includes the Gardner Museum And a complete T-Rex skeleton As the parents peer into her future And consider what vista or Vermeer Might appear in her mind's eye When she’s about to swallow the pain Killers. Oh, their belief in the power of beauty To preserve a human soul As beautiful as anything you’ve ever seen; T heir hope that beauty might open A pre-teen’s third eye as grandiose As Michelangelo imagining “T he Creation of Adam.” But, soon, with savings draining, T hey’re choosing between Egyptian tombs or Mayan ruins And debating the value of watching 18
Salmon struggle against a fall Or bats tornado from a cave And fly blind through the night— Until, on the plane ride home T hey’re blindsided by their girl weeping Over wanting “to go home To spend her remaining vision Memorizing the smiles of friends And the mountain view from her room” Instead of trying to see all T he beauty our world holds. And see, now, how each parent lingers Over the mental photo of that moment As long as they lingered over Picasso’s “Absinthe Drinker” and “Blind man’s Meal.” Like you wanting to remember T he genius it took to extract such meaning And beauty from her like suffering. Like you, almost fearless of the darkness T hey know hides behind the closed Lids of their own horizon Now that their child has finally Given them the unexpected gift Of simply seeing this.
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The Beauty of the Last Cutthroat Trout of the Season Sets widowers and divorcees musing ‘If they knew it’d be their last time Rubbing their lover’s own soft belly, T hey’d have lingered longer In the tributaries of sex, gazed deeper Into her like sky-capturing eyes, And blessed their union in T hat same raging wetness’— Instead of smoking or watching TV And feeling, now, regret’s Own bottom-feeding eels nibbling At the end of each longing thought’s line So that, foreseeing at least six moons Until the next cut throat rainbows Over the stream, the anglers lament All the like ice-time until the next lover arrives T hough, filling the new reel over winter, T he green, floating line—they dream— Might teach them how to let T heir future tender thoughts float over T he surface of their emotions’ Own chaotic run-off. And the bamboo poles Carved and sanded to a hundredth of an inch Might foretell of the flexibility they’ll bring If the next lover too, insists grandkids Need be, for a time, her main priority. Yet no old, hip-wading angler, now, Expresses this blessed entangling Of fish, love, and metaphysics So that it’s an art kin to fly fishing 20
For you to glimpse the tenderness In their gentle plying of pliers in Removing the hook of the black ghost— Or for you to note the lingering Of fingers over the slick, fat, dappled back— Or for you to see the gift of them Offering you to kiss the wet nose Before their inarticulateness of “well, you know,” Or “freezer space needed, I guess, for deer meat” Uttered in response to you musing “Why Would you let such a beautiful old cutthroat, So late in your fishing life, go?”
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