Baggage
Kids prospective mates will flee,
alimony, ex-wives and husbands—
and more, the traces, the scars
they leave. As if we
were servicing it,
like debt. Indentured servants
of the emotional world.
When all we really want is
to start anew, open to trusting
once again, with more ahead
of us than behind. The way a 20-year old
enters his first apartment, looking
happily, with anticipation,
at those blank white walls.
And maybe no baggage is a kind of
baggage too. Still on the sidelines?
Where’s the gain—a jersey
that’s clean at the end of the game.
[+]
My Parents’ Bed
Lying here where I began
I suddenly see
the world
from their
vantage point.
Cramped
by the antique space—
looking out
over the horizon
of responsibilities.
Trying to fall asleep I think
how they must
have worried:
House secure?
Bills paid? Kids safe?
This frame’s too small
for me, and far
too big to fill.
Sleigh for a journey ending
precisely where
it began.
[+]
Mrs. Burson’s Private Christian First Grade
We learned phonics, art, and the Blood of the Lamb.
The UR Sisters, E-R, U-R, and I-R: Sue Bee Honey
squeeze bottles with small yellow caps.
Nicholas, an enormous German Shepard,
mostly slept. The hamsters, unfortunately,
ate their babies, which looked like red wet thumbs.
Mrs. Burson would get on to me for saying dern,
learned from Daddy. When I acted badly,
according to her lights, she’d say ‘There’s a little demon
on your shoulder!’ My pastel of Calvary
was praised. I sanded the work with tissue. The stones
of the cave were smooth, Christ’s blood trickled down the hill.
Her son, Jack, who was in advertising,
was nearly killed by a dog food truck
that crossed into his lane coming over a viaduct.
Everything was God’s will. He worked his mysterious way,
turning me into an atheist.
Hers was the prettiest house around.
We met in the finished basement.
We made nice friends. Billy Amari and I
once pushed kids over the woodpile.
Both his parents died within a year,
his father washing up at his feet,
drowned, at Panama City Beach.
I need a little tag to place here, but I’m fresh
out of insights. I can only say that I remember,
and each time I remember there’s something new,
as if I were adding something.
And sometimes remembering is
a consolation for all the things that were lost.
I’m not afraid, or sorry for anything, anymore.
There are people who will always be with me,
and who speak to me as if from a well,
into which I look and see myself.
[+]
On the Shyness of Horses
They’re stroking the Derby winner,
shielding his eyes
from the glare of the cameras as he pants,
froths at the mouth.
In slow motion I see the full power
of his strides, propelling him beyond
the pack, the suppleness of the body
in rhythm, flowing like a river.
He seems to want to race,
but who can be sure?
The beauty of the horse lies not
in what it thinks.
And somehow respect seems in order
for all their ken, the powers
of their senses, so well beyond ours,
the will instantaneous with the act.
And just when I’m on the verge of an important
truth, it recedes, refusing to show itself.
[+]
David McNaron teaches philosophy at Nova Southeastern
University in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He received
the MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine
Arts in 2003. His poems have appeared or are
forthcoming in Poetry East, The Midwest Quarterly,
Ellipsis, MississippiReview.com, Gulf Stream,
Third Wednesday, Deep South, Red Booth Review,
Summerset Review, Tor House Newsletter and other magazines.
