What We Made of Them by Robbi Nester

November 11, 2022November 11, 2022 ~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

What We Made of Them

When my son was three or four, raccoons inhabited
the sewer outside our house. Every night, they’d
line up in the dark opening to the storm drain,
a neighborhood as populous as ours, eyes glowing
like stars gone nova. My son called them “psycorns.”
I don’t know where he got the word, but it suited them,
lurking as they did close to the dumpster, snarling
if we threatened to come near, choosing the delicacies
they most preferred from torn plastic garbage bags,
full of wilted heads of lettuce, flaccid carrots, spoiled
beef stew they extracted with their agile fingers.
My neighbor came home one day from the grocery
to find a raccoon and her kits standing in her kitchen.
They had entered through the dog door, foraged
in the pantry for the ten-pound bag of kibble,
ravaged the fruit bowl. She had to call a wildlife
specialist to remove the raccoon family
from the house before they shredded the sofa,
filled the place with fleas. How far these urban-dwelling
raccoons were from the meticulous and clever creatures
I had seen on nature films, with pointed, elven faces,
washing up before they ate. Orchards and woods
are mostly gone now. Sewers serve as raccoon
freeways, shortcuts to the closest park or vacant lot.

Robbi Nester is the author of four books of poetry and editor of three anthologies. She is a retired college educator and elected member of the Academy of American Poets. Her website is at http://www.RobbiNester.net

Two Poems by Robbi Nester

September 3, 2022September 3, 2022 ~ ONE ART ~ 3 Comments

Dream it Right
Inspired by “Rogue Dream,” by Melanie Figg

I ride the city bus to my old high school. It’s my first
day at this school, but this time, my stomach isn’t
lurching like a Chevy with a bum transmission.
No headache in the spot between my eyes.
The school building, that black box, doesn’t
look like an ill omen, a cardboard carton
inside of which a small child might fall asleep
and be accidentally crushed by a delivery van
taking a shortcut down the driveway. It’s x,
yet this time, maybe I can solve the problem.

She enters the bathroom on the second floor.
Those girls are there, the ones who threw her
down the stairs outside the cafeteria every
day at lunch time. Their hair, teased high,
glitters like spun-sugar, eyelids the iridescent
wings of butterflies, spiky lashes the insect’s
folded legs, They grip Virginia Slims in their
long fingers, turn to look out of the window.
It seems, despite the paint and pretense,
they aren’t the monsters she imagined.

But I can’t balance the equation, never
arrive at the cafeteria, still eating lunch
in the bathroom on the second floor.

Miss Rabinowitz Shows Me the Ropes

At five, I could hardly wait to go to school,
with all the big kids in the neighborhood
to learn at last to write my name and climb
the highest monkey bars. I thought school
would be one big story time, like at the library,
kind teacher, smiling kids. When I first saw
the teacher, Miss Rabinowitz, I was sure
she was the one I’d dreamed about.
She was beautiful, so tall, with the smile
I had imagined, though it was painted on.
Her hair was perfect, every strand lacquered
in place, pearly smile serene as any swan.
But anyone could tell you—swans are mean.
They beat you with their wings, stab at your
face with strong beaks. Miss Rabinowitz
played favorites. She frowned at boys,
always dirty and unruly, rude, liked only
the dimpled girls with shiny hair, braided
neatly into plaits, who sat demurely
at their desks with ankles crossed
below their rosy knees. Hands folded,
they didn’t ask, as I did, why the sun
never shined at night, why worms came out
after it rained, how flies walked on the ceiling.
I was untidy, and always broke my crayons,
held the pencil all wrong, in my left hand,
socks unraveling around my ankles, too
short and sharp-eyed, I never would be
ladylike in any way. One day, in art class,
she told us to draw a picture. I wanted
to discover a new color, laid the crayon
thick onto the paper until it tore, a waxy
mess of an uncertain hue, like a fire
smoldering in the basement. It could have
been the time to show us color charts,
explain how mixing shades creates new
shades, or had us study photos of famous
paintings, where faces might be blue
or green, but instead, she pursed her
perfect lips, holding out my picture
with the tips of painted fingers and
declared, “There is no such color.
Is this supposed to be a tree? Trees
are brown and green.” I looked up at her
flawless face and saw she hadn’t seen
the leaves in fall or touched the ashy bark
of beech trees. I knew then that school
would not be what I hoped, a sanctuary
and a home. I would have to make my own.

Two Poems by Robbi Nester

June 12, 2022June 12, 2022 ~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Closet

As a child, my parents’ bedroom was my playground—
especially my mother’s vanity, lacquered to a shiny
honey-brown, with carved feet arching like a horse’s
fetlock. I would stare into her mirror till my face grew
strange, pore through photos of her family in the drawer.
Their faces are still burned into my brain. Besides
the vanity, I loved their closet, where old purses
smelled of lavender sachet and purple sens sens,
old lipsticks’ tarnished canisters shone in the shadow
of her clothes. Here I found those broad-shouldered
jackets my mother used to wear during the war.
I wore them in high school with the scarves and
jewelry she bought in Italy. In comparison, my father’s
meager horde of shirts and slacks seemed sad, hiding
in the darkest corner. His few shirts sagged, dejected,
on the hangers, all blue, with breast pockets where
he would put his pens. His fearsome belts, still
for once, hung on a nail. My parents didn’t seem
disturbed that I was trying on their clothes, shuffling
across the floor in their big shoes, exploring everything.
I was quiet, couldn’t hurt myself or destroy the clothes
or jewelry. I had to leave them where I found them,
never take them from the room, not unless I asked,
a rule I gladly minded. Years later they were all still
there, furred with dust. The rats and roaches ran riot
through my former playroom, gone to rags.
It was a kind of justice, I suppose: I was the one
responsible for cleaning it all up, the family
wreckage fallen to its one beleaguered heir.

BBG

At age 13 I joined a Jewish youth group. My mother
wanted me to go to dances once a month. I couldn’t
dance, so I stood there in the corner in my mother’s
homemade finery, watching the others do the Cool
Jerk and the Bristol Stomp, though I never mastered
any of the moves. I don’t remember much about
those nights, except the longing, the wish that I could
just let go, feeling my head sway, hips and arms flow
with the rhythm of the band, playing “My Girl” and
“Wipe Out” too loudly and a bit offkey. Not long ago,
on Facebook, an old friend shared a photo from those
times. There I was on the top steps of the old JCC,
in my navy peacoat, bangs flung forward over one
eye, looking skeptical and slightly bored, already
on my way out of that crowd.

In the Beginning by Robbi Nester

May 2, 2022May 2, 2022 ~ ONE ART ~ 3 Comments

In the Beginning

When I was three, the street signs used to taunt
me with arcane symbols, not yet words. I knew
that if I studied them, they would open-sesame
the world I dreamed about, the one in books,
built out of these odd symbols. I filched a paper
from the corner store and stared at it for hours,
till the letters rose like flame from a struck
match. It was years before some kind adult
taught me the alphabet. Instead, my father
took the newspaper away and punished me
for stealing it. Later, every week, I’d borrow
ten books from the library. I couldn’t wait
to open them. But my mother thought
that children ought to play outside. I hid
out in the car like an assassin, sat silent
on the darkened cellar stairs, a stack
of books beside me, Prometheus, savoring
the danger, hoarding this stolen light.

Jay Fai by Robbi Nester

March 12, 2022March 12, 2022 ~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Jay Fai

In Thailand, where the most sublime
cuisine comes from street carts,
she stands over a white-hot wok
clad like a diver in goggles and
close-fitting cap. She could be
any age, although we’re told
she’s in her seventies. At first,
she was a seamstress—tiny stitches,
hems finished off with lace,
proud of her artistry. Later,
she taught herself to cook,
tasting till she got it right.
It’s meticulous attention
that makes her version
of these dishes worth traveling
from another continent
to try. She dreams only
of working, closed her shop
just once: the day that Michelin
awarded her a star. Now
so many want to watch
her cook there’s hardly room
enough for paying customers,
those able to afford a seat,
a plate of drunken noodles,
crab omelet, brown and bursting.