November 26-December 2, 2001: Taylor Graham and Kent D Smith

Bio (auto)

I live in Somerset, CA, where I&Mac226;m a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler and also help my husband (a retired wildlife biologist) with his bird projects My poetry is forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Poetry International and others My latest collection, An Hour in the Cougar’s Grace, received a Pipistrelle Best of the Small Press Award

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Taylor Graham and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Hwy 99 Somewhere up ahead must be a wreck The flashers slowed us down, and now we’re creeping on our treads, three lanes abreast, exchanging vehicle exhaust in August swelter In the slow lane a woman droops against her dashboard, lets her pedal-foot subside And I’ve crept up beside a blaze-red Peterbilt that’s hauling placard- numbered hazards in its mirrored tanks I let it slip on by A man in a faded Pinto, ponytail and tattoo hangs his arm limp out the window One lane moves ahead, another drags and then we all change paces, shift down, slow and brake, and listen as our radios swap country talk- show rock the latest breaking news We’re wondering where the wreck is and how bad We’re wondering whose lane it’s in But none of us can see that far ahead. The Queen of Cuisine She wraps herself in pastry that tans its shoulders to a secret flame, her crown of brandied oranges in ancestral sauce She was born, of course, to silver spoons, to a royal flush The queen of cooking leaves us simple feeders famished We’ve gnawed our lives away, we’ve consumed our fingers. Snowshoe Thompson’s Last Trek (c 1875) What are snowed-in Sierra passes to a Norwegian on two long skinny-sticks? What are crevasses clogged with storm, or wolf hordes to a man who can out-howl them all? The East is breathless to hear from every poor Johnny gone to gold Hangtown to Genoa, the mail must get through But solitary and patient, a man can go only so long without pay Twenty years, and finally Congress acts: “The check is in the mail “ And still Snowshoe waits; then, one last time, he straps on his skies, shoulders the old worn pack full of a whole fresh set of Western news Oh, his aging joints on the long ascent He stops to nap, perhaps he dreams On Echo Summit the wind is at his back He opens up his sack and sends all those letters air-mail. Mary, How We Ate Your Gift Today we hiked the Schneider trail through half a dozen shades of paintbrush, corn lily, lupine and cow parsnip, past running water where our dogs begged time to drink White-crowned sparrows in the willows piped our presence A flight of tiny birds too quick to name launched from a dry-rock slope where mules-ear blossomed yellow and chest-high Our dogs disappeared in wildflowers and mountain scent The old pack trail rose toward 9000 feet where a grandfather pine with rich red hide gave shade, excuse enough to pause for breath One rufus hummer buzzed a field of scarlet bugles And then the trail back down, with forget-me-nots collecting in our socks, and farewell caws of nutcrackers, and cumulus building thunder-bellies over the summits At last beside untrampled meadow, we spread our lunch to eat your gift without a single birthday candle: focaccia plumped and brown, wound with olive oil and rosemary, golden-crowned with cheese Like our dogs, we drank your health in mountain water, and left these few crumbs for jays and juncos, who live their seasons among such meadows without ever tasting Italy. Road to Fleming Mine They drove up in a truck he must have dredged out of mud and ruts and refuse of a landing at the end of a logging road long since put to bed I’d swear the dog was driving Stuck his head out first, black ears cocked The man was shaggier, bestowed with speech “Great country,” which I took to mean “Good mornin&Mac226;” or maybe “Wha’cha doin&Mac226; way out here?” As if he’d never seen a walker with no plans to stay Tipped his head the other side, where a profile riding shotgun let a slack strand of hair obscure her eyes “Great country,” he observed in my direction, which I took to mean “keep movin &Mac226;” Then he was boot-sole to the gas, the dog’s nose decoding breezes What the lady thought about it rests unsaid. Home for Christmas Ring the bell, the knocker’s dumb with crimson bows like crinkly angels Outside smiles and inside laughter, you’d swear the air smacks a guilty melt of butter to the tongue, an after-taste of anise, caraway, pecan You’ve been away too long Inside laughter and snow outside, or is it the other way around? Remember everything you’ve managed to omit, or else do wrong Upstairs, Mom has rearranged the shelves, the drawers, she’s found old journals with scratched-out scrawls, and downstairs, upstairs, smells that pace the passages you’ve walked, and gone and come again Inside smiles and outside all the snow- fights you’ve outgrown, a frosty sting of nostrils, smell of burning oak or letters in the stove A holiday’s a downhill run Your bags are heavier, and lighter with the things undone Then bells unring themselves, a front door opens in reverse, outside cold and inside laughter, which is which, you wonder that you’ve ever come.

Kent D Smith
kendsmit@indiana.edu

Bio (auto)

Kent D Smith, Jr was born on September 25, 1982 He hails from Indianapolis, IN and is presently attending Indiana University in pursuit of a degree in English and a degree in history

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Kent D Smith and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

6 a.m (conversations) you’re better than lillies, which neither care nor smile i imagine things like so: your cold sheets, your warm hands your city it’s a myth i smile over, like sorry Sisyphis trudging his hill until his lonely boulder rolls over again but you’re better than myths, which have never smelled quite right more like damp flower petals, or the pavement on mornings when you’re not sure how you got to where you are, more like stale perfume in crowded rooms than you i know your kind of smell: the type one must close his eyes for, must hold in like smoke, letting it trail over his tongue so he can get the very taste of it the very pollen of you stains my nostrils, my fingertips and my words are bees making honey of you i only pray that they won’t sting. over bridge and this is how i heard myself: body clenching, relaxing,  folding over like a violent fist to the rustle of clothing the breath shudders rip me away suddenly,  i’m onion unfolding in your palms,  layers dropping to the counter while the whispers grow louder gossip old ladies over bridge shuffle cards to our sin they do not blush enough, i think,  to cover the fact that their envy is as familiar as your dress to my floor