Tag: Saturday

Two Poems by Brooke Herter James

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

When Everything Everywhere Seems So Grim

along comes the tatted-up guy
who beckons me into bay 2 at Jiffy Lube,
waving rag flags in both hands,
sleeves rolled high, cap to the side,
grinning and whistling to the tunes
rising from the well below.
The way he asks which oil I prefer
and How your wipers doin’?
makes something turn over inside me
like a hard tug on the rototiller
that’s been rusting in the barn all winter
and suddenly, surprisingly, restarts.
Anyway, that’s how I feel
when he shouts to his crew
No extras in Bay 2,
let’s get this lady through!
And now there’s three of them
hovering over my engine with hoses
and dipsticks, banging and clanging,
like the pit stop crew at the Indy 500.
Ten minutes later, just like the sign says,
they clunk shut my hood, give the thumbs up
and wave me out into midday traffic
amidst the smell of burgers, hot tar, and lilacs.
It’s the first Saturday of summer.
I think I might just be feeling it.

*

How My Father Taught Me to Wade Across the River

The trick, he said,
is to be afraid—
first of moving forward,
then of turning back.

*

Brooke Herter James’s poetry has appeared in online and printed journals, including ONE ART, Rattle, Bloodroot Literary and Orbis. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks and one children’s picture book. She lives in Vermont.

Saturday by J.R. Solonche

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Saturday

Frank came to clean the place,
pick up branches, blow leaves.
My mother died last week, he said.
Oh, I’m sorry, Frank, I said.
She died in her sleep. She was 89,
he said. She lived a full life, I said.
It was peaceful in her sleep, he said.
That’s the best way. In your sleep,
I said. She lived a full life, he said.
I saw her more in the nursing home
than I saw her for thirty years,
he said. I understand. The yard
looks good, I said. But you have
to do something about this, he said,
pointing to the bare ground in front.
The rain coming down the back
is washing away the soil and the grass.
I see that. I should tend to that, I said.
You really need to or you’ll have
no lawn this summer, he said.
Thanks. I’ll tend to it. Sorry about
your mom, I said. Thanks. It’s okay.
I’m okay. We’re okay. She was 89.
She lived a full life. She died in her
sleep. Real peaceful. I hope I go
like that. In my sleep. Don’t forget
the lawn. And the garden needs
work, too. Don’t forget the garden,
he said. I won’t forget, I said.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 35 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.