by Marjorie Power
Beyond the farmhouse,
a wheat-yellowed hill.
Beyond the hill, wind
tousles the vale. Slopes,
fields, a golden rolling
that doesn’t subside
until it does. Comes a view
that spreads wide and flat,
holds a road with one car
on its way to a glistening river.
Beyond the glisten, fish
pass this stretch of dry land
chosen in the early ‘40’s
to build nuclear bombs.
Beyond -iums, half-lives
have their way. We choose
to face what leaks or look beyond
to where the car, idling now,
waits to give us a ride.
Repellents, fences, forget it.
Deer must have people’s roses.
These ballet-limbed beauties
begin with tulips, chomp their way
into slant light at the start of the next school year.
This is a university city, small,
spreading its brushy edges with large new homes.
A ten-best-places-to-live place.
People here like reasonable solutions.
They like the old-fashioned
deer of memory, that didn’t step right up
and stare, and stand there.
Pitfalls in the Slow Lane
The local hazelnut farm
sells flour, butter, pancake mix,
two kinds of candy. I mean three.
And chocolate dipped nuts and salted ones.
Yesterday my husband and I were
hoping to sit outside with their ice cream
but they’ve removed the chairs and little tables,
locked the door, put up a sign inviting us
to buy our hazelnut products
from their website.
There’s a new memoir
advertised on Amazon as well as
the author’s elegant blog.
On the book cover a pair
of silky legs, calves perfectly curved,
one knee bandaged daintily.
Bare thighs (this is a photograph
and we’ve almost reached the top
of the frame). The rest of the woman
must be sitting in a playground swing.
Crotch of her underpants.
The title’s in skinny print
as if incidental.
On occasion I cross paths
with the author. I wanted
to want her memoir.
I don’t need luring
like a voyeur.
I don’t know this person well
but better than, let’s say,
anyone I knew at the farm.