Listen to Poems from Our March Issue

The vivid poems in our March issue describe escapes of two very different kinds. In Robert P. Cooke’s “Mountain Flowers” a young man slides into wistful fantasies as he drives his truck past clotheslines in the hills of Colorado. In Wendy Drexler’s poem, a vibrant retelling of a familiar story from the Bible, Noah’s wife flees not only the flood but the swarming, riotous ark that carried her away from it. Click the play button below to listen to the authors read these two transporting poems.

Take care and listen well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor

 

Mountain Flowers
By Robert P. Cooke

			When I was sixteen,
			pickup truck, load of hay,
			there was nothing I’d rather see
			from the window than women’s underwear
			hanging on a backyard clothesline.
			Size didn’t matter, nor color,
			but I preferred to see them on a mountain ranch
			because of the ravishing big sky
			and the long range of open space
			for the wind.
			And I’d think, sitting back in my seat and
			peering out the window, of all the seeds
			being carried away, and the dust, and the
			broken-off, fragile blossoms of wildflowers
			from horses grazing. And I’d think of the wind
			that caressed goats and sheep in spring
			on the sloping high meadows.
			The bras and panties flapping outside
			on the sunniest days. I saw a pair of pink ones
			near Fort Collins, the hot breeze causing
			a slight shifting from one leg to the other,
			and a little twist at the waist,
			as if they were slow-dancing.
		

 

Noah’s Wife
By Wendy Drexler

				Noah, his swelled head, his ego larger than the ark, his crazy
				self-promoting savior mania. Because of him we dropped
				everything, sank our fortune in cypress wood, and every
				filthy creature we couldn’t trap we had to buy with our last coin.
				It was hell in there—the boars squalling and farting, ravens
				cawing so loud I thought my eardrums would burst. And the snakes.
				They terrified me, slithering in their hastily strapped-together cages.
				The hippos bellowing and rolling in piss-soaked straw. The rabbits
				breeding so fast they began to eat each other. Noah had to grab
				my hand to stop me from killing the flies swarming my sweaty neck.
				The peacocks dragging their dirty tails. All of us in that squalor,
				and the floodwaters brimming with rotting flesh.
				I was the one who slopped the decks and mopped and boiled
				pots of lentil stew. Noah complained I didn’t put enough
				salt on the eggs. As soon as we scraped the mountaintop,
				I knew I’d leave him. I fled as fast as the dove he released,
				the one that never came back. I guess I owe him for dragging me
				away from home. I would have stayed and drowned with our
				drunken friends. Instead I’ve spent these last peaceful years
				in a small cottage, growing my own onions and flax, gathering
				honey, collecting rainwater for my garden in a barrel of leftover
				cypress I made with my own two hands.