Ruth Z. Deming

Thanks Carole and Gregory for the postcard from Havana.
The turquoise Olds stutters down the boulevard. Only
old men govern in Cuba. Literacy is high, as the Castros
and Company, torture and lock away the folks of good will.

Shirley Sanders, white-haired like me, and slender in her blue top and
shorts,
looks like a million dollars as her early-onset Alzheimer’s takes away
everything, every single thing, except her bones.

I laugh. A famous artist Robert Whitley shown with his massive throne-like
wooden chair, stabbed his wife. Rage on, Bob, but remember, thou shalt
not kill.

Janis Joplin and Marvin Gaye reign on the bottom half of the fridge.
Their photos
from the stamps that went out years ago. Ain’t no mountain high enough
to keep
Marvin’s daddy from shooting him or Janis from shooting the big H.

A pair of legs stride across the fridge, purty legs like Rita Hayworth
or Lana Turner, as I open the fridge door and pick out a big shiny
Red Apple.

Dedicated to my children, Sarah and Daniel, who bought me my new refrigerator on the occasion of my birthday on December 25, 2009.

Shhhh.
All is still and dark
and I have awoken
from dreamless sleep
and come to the dark kitchen
for water.

The refrigerator is new
brought in on a red dolly
by a man who turned corners
carefully and wheeled
it in like a newborn
in a carriage.

Alone in the night
in the dark kitchen
I hear the sounds of the night.
Is that a moon outside
casting its brightness
onto my table to make it shine?

And I
the recipient of brightness
in my dark kitchen
find by careful fingering
a glass
sparkling streakless squeaky
from the dishwasher,
we are modern people,
and no longer go to the well,
but in the dark,
place my glass just so,
pushing the rubber udder
of the water dispenser
on the outside,
and listen
for the fullness of the
glass,

Then, turning round,
listen for the sounds
of the night
no birds, no winds,
no squirrels scurrying on the branch

The hum of the refrigerator is all I hear,
and heat pumping up from the basement,
we no longer live by campfire
or hear wolves howling in the distant hills,
these are the sounds of a quiet home,
more windows than wood,

Gulping:
the first thing we do,
and the last.

Are they really that far away?
Seems like I could stretch
my arms and scoop a handful
to play with or sleep with
in my lonely bed.

Who knows? Perhaps if I do
I would ignite and you’d see
me no more.

Or my house would light up
like the manger and we’d all
be born again, given a second chance.

Starving, I wolf down many layered sardines
bathed in olive oil.

The King’s picture is on the papery cover
that rattles invitingly to my touch.

King Oscar would protect you from every threat
imaginable. Hordes of barbarians, with

Spears aloft. Floods on mountain-sides
that seek to squoosh us alive.

Thunderbolts of Zeus that
would sizzle our skin.

Such a hero is the King.
Broad shoulders with

Epaulets like ship
Masts.

Moustaches that sweep downward
A full beard like a roaring furnace.

He is our man.
The Good King Oscar.

editors note: Sardine salvation. Stock up for the apocalypse! (Canned ekphrasis? Uncanny! – check it out here.) – mh clay