Paragon
in memory,
Beth Bentley, October 7, 1921 – February 11, 2021
Cleopatra of
Padelford, mentor
whose quiet laughter
held us all in thrall.
Didn’t a shortish
priest flirt with her
on a bus in Rome?
Did she not lunch on
the Brontë sisters,
consider Hazel
Hall’s work in the fine
finesse of critique?
Where does the moon go
in daytime? And she
whose autumn leaves we
turned in our fingers
might disdain this
poem written only
to afford a hat,
a spell, a peach. Now
let us take up again
these hidden articles.
Let’s find no rule to
forbid the dream of
what it is we’re
meant to do, even
in the face of life
more certain than death’s
sentence. Whether she’d
like the metaphor
remains suspect. We
recall her dark eyed
invitation to
re-enter the world
of the packet boat
in a dirge of birds
stunned by sunlight.
Somnambulism
I came to the dream
of blue orange juice,
the floor with no urinals.
I came to
on a single Ambien,
walked across the yard
in a strappy chemise,
clotted grasses
wet on bare feet.
A tightrope of that
dead mime’s
one night stands
stretched like a rat’s tail.
Made my way
through the maze
of an English garden,
found the garage door
unlocked, climbed
the single staircase
to the kitchen
thinking to make coffee.
October’s Mole
At it again, undoing the earth,
throwing cakes of dirt
up into light and rain,
shovelling through Hades.
Swimming the crawl stroke,
tunnelling for the sake
of mystery into avenues
fragrant with worm-flesh
and feathered roots.
Infiltrating the myths,
ragged-toothed as an old woman
I called grandmother,
her hair half gone,
her voice a whisper.
At it like an intimate,
How masculine,
this rodent, no shovel,
no gloves, naked
except for the grey fur.
In no hurry to remedy
wrongs, instead moving
forward, carving out
territory for the sake
of a secret wish.
The Quotidian
The only news the news.
Listen to the chimes tell
their famous secrets.
I promise to be your vault
if you tell me, your arm
at an angle, how a bone heals
stronger than its break.
When dinner’s over,
our hunger sated
by faux bourbon sauce
over chicken
and broccoli noodled
with ricotta and garlic,
outside in the dark
some thing will walk beneath
an umbrella—flashlight, dog,
no person—dog and light
circling one another
like bicycle pedals.
Judith Skillman is a resident of Newcastle, Washington and a dual citizen of US and Canada. Her work has appeared in Cimarron Review, Poetry, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, Zyzzyva, and other journals. She is the recipient of awards from Academy of American Poets and Artist Trust. Her collection A Landscaped Garden for the Addict is forthcoming from Shanti Arts. Visit www.judithskillman.com
