Five Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

Perhaps God is Waiting for a Hallelujah

 

prim, proper—nearly stoic,

people lined into orderly pews,

dresses, stockings, ties, and suits,

voices keeping a low-key rhythm

with mouths opening and shutting

like good little fish,

the sacraments are in tidy plastic cups,

the offering baskets dutifully passed,

the three-point sermon tied with ribbon,

but

what if God is holding his breath—

what if he’s waiting for a little stirring,

a little swaying of the hips,

hands waving to heaven,

heads thrown back in abandoned;

what if he’s waiting for a glory-hallelujah,

waiting for feet to dance like David did

before the Lord,

and what if God came down and stormed

the pulpit with a hell, fire, and brimstone

sermon that shook the rafters, raised the roof,

and what if he said, Can I get an Amen?

 

Enlighten Me

 

oh, great one

full of knowledge,

I am waiting—

a blank slate

designed to absorb

your every thought;

impart your wisdom,

use big vocabulary;

I love it when you talk

            Dictionary;

I’ll spend nights

dissecting the meaning;

you, oh, cosmic one,

on your seat next to God,

how have I survived this long

without you pointing out

my every imperfection?

I’ll kiss the ground you walk on,

now that I have seen your holy shoes;

where would I be

if not under your feet?

 

The Real Planetarium

 

back on a blanket, torso exposed

to the summer’s falling dew,

fingers trace the constellations

as if they’re all brand new:

 

the Big Dipper spills some soup;

I taste it on my tongue;

Andromeda and Gemini

sing a song I’ve never sung

 

Ursa Major prowls for food,

yawning as she lumbers by;

Orion shoots an arrow;

I blow a kiss to the sky

 

Phantom Pain

 

Like a severed limb—

they say you can’t feel

the pain,

yet pain jitters like needles

stabbing the missing section

of your heart,

the chunk that broke off

and shattered like fine crystal

three seconds after the midnight call,

two seconds after the blood drained

from your face,

one second before time

cracked like a walnut

into then and now.

 

Impromptu Childhood

 

Rain peppers my windshield,

headlights on, wipers swishing.

 

I pull into the parking lot,

summon the courage

 

to disembark—so much

for doing my hair today;

 

the drowned-kitten look

is most unflattering.

 

I sigh, grab my umbrella,

getting wet before it opens.

 

I start to sidestep a puddle

but have a sudden fit

 

of inspiration—regression

maybe

 

and I stomp, as hard as I can

then jump to the next puddle

 

and stomp it too;

I must look like a woman

 

gone mad—but I continue

from puddle to puddle

 

utterly soaked to my bones

and happier than I’ve been

 

in a long, long time.

Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Contemporary Haibun Online, Calliope, North of Oxford, Right Hand Pointing, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To contact Arvilla or to learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/