Fresh Sights

For many of us March is a time when the world outside is full of surprises and every day brings new sights—bulbs emerging, trees budding, the first bare ground after months of snow. The poems in our March issue offer fresh images of their own: A dog running the bases in Laura Didyk’s “Like Love Is a Heart.” In Jeff Tigchelaar’s “Regards,” a squirrel shocked to find the author playing hooky on his deck. And, just in time for spring, an early patch of flowers in “Snowdrops,” by Andrea L. Fry. You can listen to the authors read their poems by clicking the Play buttons below.

Take care and listen well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor

 

Like Love Is a Heart
By Laura Didyk

He’s everywhere I go.
Turn onto Silver, there he is.
Dark car, right taillight
blown, yellow dog tail 
wagging like a wiper
in the rear window. Later
there he is driving easy
through town past Elm
& Main, where I wait for green.

Before we ever kissed,
I loved his beautiful
dog, her eyes, his face,
how tall he was and
how blond and his beard. Every
time we met, he opened
his arms like wings. So tired
of myself that early spring
after months alone
with snow, I stepped
right into them.

Near the end he took me
to the ball field after dark
to show me the way
they sprint the bases. I’d never
seen him run like that:
under stars in
wet grass, from one clear
place to another, exuberant
muzzle yipping at his knee.
Look at him go.

Yesterday outside the market
I parked alongside his car, kissed
the dog so excited to see me
through the cracked window.
I couldn’t find him
in the aisles. Nor at the freezer
where we always went
to get popsicles, him stealing
my private habit of taking them
to bed at all hours. Next to his mattress
I once found five wrappers, inside
each a hued wooden strip
laid neatly to rest. All together
they made the shape
of a family. I made a point
to gather and toss them
before I left in case
the dog could not resist.

You haven’t known me
long enough, I said
in bed, to promise things
like that. He knew enough,
he said, rested his hand
on my hip and pressed. I hate it
when they do that. Like I’m easy
to love. Like love is a heart
he can sit behind
the wheel of, drive
through town, windows
down, dog and girl along
for the ride, as if he’ll never
ever change his mind.

Regards
By Jeff Tigchelaar

When you stay
home from work
Monday morning and sit
on the deck in the sun
with some tea and a book
creatures
come and investigate that shit
because they know
you’re not supposed
to be there. A squirrel
applies the brakes atop the fence
having climbed the flip side not expecting
a monster to rise in his sights. A big bumbling bee
hovers like a chopper near your head
and you were going to swat him
but instead you laugh and wave
like a nut because you’re not
at your job and at times
it can be nice to be regarded.

Snowdrops
By Andrea L. Fry

Dad drives us to the edge of the woods to see the snowdrops.
He’s got a martini between his legs, gripped
with one hand like a saddle horn
and garnished with an olive.
We get out of the car, and he climbs the small slope.
He uses his hand to clear away brown leaves.
A little colony is exposed like a secret convent,
white heads bowed in prayer.
“There they are,” he says softly.

Dad was happiest in early spring,
when the lake thawed and the fish stirred.
When bluegills rose to snowflakes.
When the whole world got hungry.