Tag: Promise

Let’s Make a Deal by Julie Standig

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Let’s Make a Deal

1. No Big Deal

My dad’s words to me
during a fireside chat—
I need you to keep a promise
you have yet to make,
and you won’t like,
but I need it just the same.

What he neglected to add,
despite how difficult and necessary,
was how this final act would taunt.

2. Easy Deal

My mom also wanted me to help
end her life. I smiled, if only
you had asked me forty years ago…
But when the hospital called at 3am
I did kick in, no tubes, no thanks.

3. Raw Deal

The good daughter did the deed. Twice.
As told. And yet, I can’t shake
the hard fact I was the one, not nature,
not doctors, I alone was responsible
for ending their days, hours, minutes.

4. My Deal

Know this, my children—
for future reference,
it was always the right thing to do.
No big deal.

*

Julie Standig, is the author of two poetry books— The Forsaken Little Black Book, (Kelsay Books) which was nominated for an Eric Hoffer Award and a chapbook, Memsahib Memoirs (Plan B Press). Her poems have appeared in Schuylkill Valley Journal, Gyroscope Review, New Verse News, Macqueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART and elsewhere. A lifetime New Yorker, she now resides in Bucks County with her husband and their springer spaniel.

Two Poems by Clint Bowman

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Promise

The multiflora rose
by the back patio
is strangling
our lilac bush.

Ronnie, next door,
offered his Roundup—
but I told him,
“That stuff gives you cancer.”

Now I’m two feet deep
in the tangles,
and my white shirt
is slowly growing
red polka dots.

You gifted me this lilac
ten years ago for my birthday
with a card that read,
“Don’t let me die.”

I promised you I wouldn’t.

But I couldn’t save you
that night you huffed paint
and played with
your father’s pistol.

If I were there,
I would have told you,
“I’m keeping my promise.”

Like I am now,
crawling on my knees,
pulling weeds,
giving our lilac
my water.

*

Threads

Sometimes
I want to go back

to where the deer
don’t run in my presence,

and the frogs keep singing
as I stomp through the creek.

Back to where
closets are full

of shotguns—
locked and loaded,

and the old gas station
is run by a woman
who calls me baby
and takes the tax
off my bottles.

Where farmers
offer me cigarettes,
and even though
I don’t smoke,
I entertain the idea
over ramblings

about local roads
that stitch together
our kin—

threads so tightly knit,
all the heat stays in,
so those frogs
can’t stop singing,
and the deer have learned—
there’s nowhere to run.

*

Clint Bowman is a writer from Black Mountain, North Carolina. During the day, Clint works as a recreation coordinator leading hikes, river cleanups, and other outdoor programs throughout the Swannanoa Valley. In the evening, Clint facilitates the Dark City Poets Society- a free poetry group based out of the Black Mountain Library. More of Clint’s recent work has appeared in the Roanoke Review, Poetry South, and Louisiana Literature.