Five Poems by Shoshauna Shy

 

THE THRICE-DIVORCED WOMAN

IN THE LOCKER ROOM

BRAIDS HER HAIR 

                                                                 

She’s been that surge to merge, the whisk of the

waltz, buttery confections, sizzle and steam; the

comfort of flannel, coffee percolation; the climb

to vertigo, the jump to surrender–Lather, rinse

repeat. But is this failure? What else lasts

a lifetime? At least each bond lasted long

enough to matter, just like the seasons

that silken to sweaty, sift over to

snow. A bare foot on the bench

braces for balance as she

separates three bundles:

lift, twine and tug to

the last paintbrush

inch, satin-flat as

her palms press,

no strands astray.

She knows how

to start things.

How to finish

them, too.

First published in Write City Magazine 

 

 

ELECTRICITY 

 

On the cusp of 14, lightning

striking everywhere, we ate

bowls of Kraft Mac & Cheese

at midnight in your canopy bed,

falling asleep with 1968 Motown

so as not to miss a single note

beaming its way from Chicago

WCFL to your transistor.

With Dippity-Do, orange juice

cans, Bonne Bell lip gloss

and pantyhose, we were knocking

on the door of this new domain

hoping to Say a Little Prayer

like Aretha; be Stevie Wonder’s

“month of May”; second Smokey’s

emotion, your radio the spark

to connect us to what shimmered

beyond skateboards and candy

necklaces bought with found nickels.

When we drifted awake 3 AM,

Archie Bell & the Drells were dancing

in the dark, beckoning us to leave

the tire swing and join the party.

Once we found out that a boy’s gaze

could blow a fuse and break the circuit,

we didn’t want to get passed over nor

left behind; didn’t want this feverish

heat to go on another moment

without us

 

 

THE ARTIST ARRIVES TO PACK

UP HER SHOW, LEARNS

NOTHING SOLD

 

and envies the poet

who happens upon her book

in the one-buck-bin

under a shop awning

with the inscription

she once penned there

on the title page, proof

somebody read it;

somebody once held it

in their hands 

 

 

HOMEMADE FROM SCRATCH 

 

“If you don’t mind my asking”

are six words you do mind

and so does your mother.

The asker knows this but asks

anyway, these asking mothers

who crop up on the playground

while you’re in the sandbox,

on see-saws, pony swings.

“Is he really yours?” that adverb

like gravel under your tongue

grows into a boulder, blots out

the playscape, trees and all.

The implication is “Where did you

get him?” and “Why did you have to?”

because of course every mom

prefers homemade.

Just like store-bought cookies

are second-rate, not what you bring

to the Easter brunch potluck.

You’re still pre-K

 

so your mother stalls, falters;

she’s not practiced at this

and some things cannot ever

be prepped or rehearsed

 

such as when Mrs. Clegg

in the fourth grade

hands out shiny worksheets,

draws with chalk on the blackboard

where the names are to go

for your family tree

 

and Harriet B. Jiles at the desk

next to yours claims this is for those

with a Real Family

 

and helps herself to the crayon box

you both have to share, takes the one

with the sharpest point.

 

 

THE “CHOSEN” CHILD CHOOSES

 

The ‘Given Up’: Practical Tools

for the Adoptee handbook

claims I am accustomed

to inhabiting the lead role

in a mystery novel: who

did this and why?

I study bus stop mothers

with their grade school children

who mimic them in gesture,

take affection for granted.

In her summery cottons

with yellow ribbon that circles

a saucy straw hat, Elly’s mom

is my choice, always waves

and offers a smile to me.

I decide Elly and me, due to

a nurse’s mischief, got swapped

at St. Luke’s, Elly really meant

to play stand-in for Mrs. Chaken

 

who avoids the bus stop, never

wears blue jeans, stays at home

on Show-the-Parents Night.

And now, two decades later,

a letter from some stranger

declaring she’s my mother,

wants to meet at Colectivo

in downstate Clark County

 

when it’s Elly’s mom I adopted

in that third grade fantasy,

an allegiance not outgrown

looped taut like yellow ribbon.

Shoshauna Shy's poems have recently been published by Pinyon, Front Porch Review, Poetry South and RockPaperPoem. 

Author of five collections, she is the recipient of two Outstanding Achievement Awards from the Wisconsin Library Association, and was a finalist for the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid poetry prize sponsored by Winning Writers. 

One of her poems was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021, and another longlisted for the Fish Publishing Poetry Prize 2022. Her poems have been made into video, produced inside taxi cabs, and even decorated the hind quarters of city buses.