The
big black brahma blares his horn
to
protest sore feet from dragging tons
of
muscle and flesh across the desert.
He
preaches and prays for rain.
The
javelina sprawl in the sand and spa
like
chemo patients in pain. Too hot to holler.
the
coyote pack trail their tongues and tails
past
the mesquite, cholla and saguaro.
With
sweat staining their hide,
the
does and bucks circle the water,
waiting
their turn. The hammering ceases
as
the flicker and my husband take a siesta.
I
lie on cool sheets behind clay
walls,
sipping lemonade and tea
over
cubes of ice and reading Steinbeck
and
drifting into delightful dreams
where
I walk up and down the grassy
hills
of my childhood in Montana,
the
cobble streets of Mexico and take
the
trolley through Toronto.
Father’s
Day 2022
Static
crackles on the landline
like
crumpled up aluminum foil.
Is that you Ben? I whisper
picturing
him calling on his cell
phone
from whatever dimension
he
is traveling through these days.
I
pick up the wooden walking stick
my
husband whittled from a Palo
Verde
and hobble down the driveway,
holding
onto my husband’s arm
as
the hot air propels us to the road.
Feeling
feet numbing, legs aching,
I
start to head back to the house
when
a balloon floats above, snagging
on
a barrel cactus across the road.
He
runs to retrieve the blue balloon
with
black letters shouting
Happy
Father’s Day, desperately
blowing
air into the flattened balloon
like
he is giving CPR to a hiker
we
find collapsed on the road.
Watching
Over Ben
At
midnight I rise from my bed
and
wander on weak wobbly legs
to
the kitchen for a slice of cherry
pie
with a scoop of vanilla ice cream
wishing
he was here to share it.
Rain
slants down in sheets,
thunder
roars like the cougars
and
I look for him as lightning flashes
on
the rock mountain shaped
like
an Elephant, wanting to take
him
a raincoat, an umbrella,
a
dry change of clothes, a cup
of
coffee and a cinnamon roll.
But
my legs are even less reliable
than
they were that humid July
day
when one son took one arm
and
the other the other arm
and
helped me up the slope
to
the mountain where I sat
on
a rock while they carried
him
to the top and left him there.
I
know his spirit shed his skin
like
the snakes and lizards
and
he has no need for food
or
water but still I want to take
him
a bean burrito and watch
his
blue eyes sparkle as the cheese
and
refried beans drip down
his
chin and through his fingers
like
the last time we shared a meal.
All
My Sorrows Soon Forgotten
The
clock says 7 am and the sky
is
grey and I am not sure if
it
is morning or night until I see
my
breakfast smoothie on the tray.
It looks like it is going to rain, I
say.
I hope not. The last of my roofing material
just came in from Lowes, my husband
says
as he jumps in the pickup truck.
In
my inbox is an email from my cousin,
the
brother I never had, the same size
as
me when he was two and I was one.
His
mother dressed us in identical
shorts,
shoes, and socks and pushed
the
double stroller all over Columbus.
Aren’t my twins adorable? she’d gush.
I tried calling but your line was busy,
he
writes, now at 81. I lost my youngest
son on Memorial Day. Aneurism.
I
remember Shane, the same age
as
Ben, both of our sons now dead.
I was supposed to go first, he writes.
The
same thing I said when I called
him
a year ago to tell him about Ben.
Lightning
sizzles, thunder roars
like
a jet taking off on the runway,
cows
huddle under the ironwoods
and
water drips and drizzles
then
pours and floods the courtyard
as
I wobble to the window to watch
while
my husband loads shingles
on
the truck bed in Mesa.
And
my cousin in Billings makes plans
for
a military service with his son’s
marine
buddies in the fall and to cast
his
son’s ashes in July on a hill between
Island
Lake and Mystic Lake
where
they hiked and caught rainbow trout.
My other son’s dog Buddy is there.
That’s where I want to be too, he
says.
July
16, 2022
In
a gown made of silk, satin and lace,
layered
like her wedding cake,
our
redheaded granddaughter
stands
on her deck decorated
with
purple and pink wildflowers
and
western memorabilia. Wearing
black
cowboy hats and boots,
matching
tuxedos, camo vests
and
orange ties her six-year-old son
and
groom flank her on either side
as
the sun slants through the Bing
Cherry
Tree, Elephant Hart Plum Tree
and
Dwarf Honey Crisp Apple Tree
in
the suburb of Salt Lake City.
As
she says her vows and tosses
her
bouquet, we watch on our cellphone
from
the Arizona desert, just a year
after
sun sifted through the Idaho
pines
as we placed white and red roses
on
the grave of her great grandmother.
Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist
who lives in Arizona. She has published eight poetry books including My
Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014,) What the Clairvoyant
Doesn’t Say and Trials & Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021)
and Survivors, Saints and Sinners and Kiddos & Mamas Do the Darndest
Things (Cyberwit 2022.) Her work has also appeared recently or is forthcoming
in Discretionary Love, Impspired, GAS Poetry, Art and Music, The Rye
Whiskey Review, Black Coffee Review, Terror House Review, Trouvaille
Review, ONE ART, Mad Swirl, The Drabble, Gleam, Spillwords, Muddy
River Review, Verse-Virtual, Your Daily Poem, Red Eft Review and
The Five-Two.
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