Two Poems by Charles K. Carter

The Impact of Gravity

Rumor has it that in the 1950s,
two couples stopped here after prom
to have a couple of drinks.
They passed the brown-bagged bottle
and they danced to the staticy car radio,
blasting race music from the city across the Ohio
– that music the school board made sure
wasn’t allowed to be played at school dances.
A truck going too fast down the hill didn’t have time to stop
and struck all four teenagers dead in their dancing shoes.

As teenagers, we drove out to Hatch Road,
took a left turn, left turn, right,
and then six miles down the curvy gravel
we stopped at the unnamed narrow bridge.

If you put the car in neutral, B said,
the ghosts of those kids
will push the car up the hill
and off to the side of the road,
saving you from the possibility of
reliving their tragedy.

Bullshit, I said, always the naysayer,
always the Dana Scully in our group.

B dropped the car in neutral,
lifted his hands in the air
as if he were submitting to a man with a gun.

Your feet, I pointed.

He brought his feet up
and rested them on top of the dash.

After a few tense moments,
the car slowly crept backwards,
up the hill
and off to the side of the road,
where it came to a stop.

We tested it out with the car facing up the hill – same results.
I got behind the wheel – same results.
M said she came out once by herself.
We all came back a week later.
A month later.
Three years later – same results.

And I admit defeat in the limits of my own mind.
I don’t know how a car could defy the weight of gravity to climb up a hill.

I guess there are forces out there I just don’t understand
and they aren’t all malevolent.
There are gentle hands to guide us.
There is unnamed goodness in this world.

And I want those gentle hands to guide me now
because my own hands are unreliable.
They are calloused and rough
and always reaching for the sharp edge of oblivion.

*

The Gift

He could sing from within the womb.
No joke. His mother would tilt her head back
and open her mouth like the horn of an old phonograph
and an angelic voice would ring out from deep within.
They say when he was born, he entered the light of our world
with a fortissimo Hallelujah!

A singing baby turned into a singing toddler
and his talents afforded his family fortune and attention
but this was merely his fifteen minutes of fame.
As his frame grew taller and lankier,
the novelty of his appeal faded and they all worried
about what would happen when puberty reared its ugly head his way.
But his voice was not shredded by adolescence,
it quickly evolved into a tender tenor, then a boisterous baritone,
an angel still locked away somewhere in the cage of his voice box.

In time, he became overwhelmed by the attention
so he moved to the big city to blend in
but his neighbors, who didn’t even know his name, kept their windows open
all day and all night, through all seasons, even in the dead of winter,
just to hear his song.

*

Charles K. Carter is a queer poet who lives in Oregon. They are the author of If the World Were a Quilt (Kelsay Books) and Read My Lips (David Robert Books). Carter is the creator of the video podcast series #SundaySweetChats. He can be found on Instagram and Twitter @CKCpoetry.