October 4-10, 1999: Delree Rose and Bill Trudo

Week of October 4-10, 1999

Delree Rose and Bill Trudo

Delree Rose



I’m Delree Rose, a poet currently finding shelter in Providence,  Rhode Island I’m an editor of Stirring, an online poetry collection, and a preformed and published poet and playwright.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Delree Rose and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

How I Got To April


I fell asleep last year with letters
printed on wooden tiles, hands,
like lycra across my thigh, a poem
about Carolina limbs in winter,
but woke to a man with eyes
like songs I decided then to smile,
decided to pull him through
Charleston, Columbia, the Appalachians,
to the tethered state beyond
The waking was short I crammed
our worlds into the backseat of a car
and drifted like foam, away from moon,
toward noon at its climax I forced him
behind the wheel and slept

I still don’t remember which exit
I’m at Which county I belong to The northern world is an anomaly,
and I am Jonah, swallowed
When he kept driving the baskets
beneath my eyes carried lifetimes I bled
his voice when it clicked The stars hated
us in the end, colliding and rupturing
on the blackboard of night

The month was wet No rain,
just the subtle hands of time
becoming brave I laughed
at the moon, wrote her, spoke of her
solitary suicide, how she slips, 
like injured animals, from the eye,
and rots beyond the endless stretch
of horizon I couldn’t take my stars
from him, left them in the abyss
of snow He would call and his laughter
would be a sky so shot full of holes
that I would rain on my own

But I became a cupid, telling him
stories about people who pretended
otherwise Who lapped up listless
wisp of cloud, and held it under tongue I wasn?t one of them I just spit
out seeds, and burned SaintValentine myself


He gave a space between body
and wall for me to live I pushed the South
from my eyes and spoke as if I’d never
tasted gravy over bread Dressed like
an Eskimo, knowing all the thousand words
for snow Furious Forgotten Phlegmatic I wrote about tires and their trudge
through the lanes of unfamiliar license plates
and men with beards as I’ve never seen
The snow was not packed It melted
across my birthday, singing a death march I didn’t know I could inspire,
until Persephone rose, to take my tongue
on hers My sin for a thousand wakeless morns
Returning I didn’t know winter anymore
It was a story told to children so as it quell
their eyes, feed them sleep I became a tsunami I destroyed time and its shards of silence

By now Carolina was distant The northern
terrace, a cradle of memory I breast-fed wait

He rang it in with a bell so large it could have been
me I still shudder from the backlash

The circuitous fashion of dream amuses,
traveling as a monarch in March, north, north, 
north, until home became who it was

I wish I could too travel with wings like castles,
stretched across the fabric of sky Instead,
I wait for the flowers of May, and all
the rain which shall gorge them.

Bill Trudo


I currently live in the Chicagoland area

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Bill Trudo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


The corn repeats rows, waist-high young,
and the soybeans gather at the ankles,
but you have never tended these green fields,
just drive by with the mission of city
strung to the next through worn-out, two-bar towns Catch a drink in dark solemn rooms; wonder
why the harshness here like giggly girl flesh
pinned-up and lipsticked-over to impress
the older, strong hands who find the slow way
every night home, climb in bed with their wives,
and forget love Patience lies with virtue,
acceptance that the ground will try to take
all the sky has to offer, wind and rain,
until the cracks have blown and the rivers
swollen in disregard of the bank’s slope
Climax is passion and brief The dust trails
sent cloudward by the pickup wheels spinning
linger and wash the fields and smooth the edge
with another inch on every tombstone,
the reflective mileage This is what drives
the green shoots, some fancying of blueness
and bright lights that dress yellow from one day
to the next, and you pass through these old towns,
catch a drink at one of the two bars left,
and you understand the bleak hope elsewhere
streamed by your ribbons of destination.


The women are black dresses,
.spaghetti straps, and curves The men are casual slacks,
.tucked polo shirts, and shoulders
They roam the room like billiard balls Conversation rises and falls

like the tide,
perhaps the engine revving
.then the lull,
the eerie absence and the sputter,
faces looking towards anyone
.for another roaring crest
The keg is full,
the night air on the balcony, crisp Inside drips Words slip

playfully spying,
.gauging like calipers
Her breasts are pert, his buttocks, firm,
and they laugh

in constellations
connecting dots
.of two
or three,
sometimes four
Six have gathered at the couch Stock has split and doubled,
and his eyes green the greenest green
.All her friends giggle–
twenty-five turned back to ten
.and T’s
.and slumber parties
He would have thought of pony tails
and toad kisses then–
.icky cootie kisses–
but now,
.if she can warm his bed
Two guys chug a beer
and pour another from the tap Two gals check their makeup and their lips
in the bathroom mirror
He comments about the hanging art,
.wonders if it’s Japanese or Korean It’s Chinese and she wonders about his heart,
.how warmly would it glow in the sky
Neither will lie,
caught in the parade passing by,
.the top button left unbuttoned,
.the strap that teases with its slide
There are whispers
and there are smiles
and they find themselves together
against the tile of the kitchen walls
The lonely watch their loneliness
and the angry hurl their spit
while the content hope with hope
.just once

for a lifetime to survive.


When I was thirteen,
I said anything
but my doubts
This was the expectation
passed from father and mother
to child
I can still smell
the orderly lines of pews,
the thick incense
Sir More confirmed his faith
by losing his head,
but I didn’t
I dressed in a blue suit,
took his name,
and learned silence.

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