When I Wished I Were Dead Driving down 99 South, wishing That I were dead, I spy up ahead an old Red Chevy truck, dragging a trailer Two-wheeled, boarded sides look Homemade, piled high but held Tight, rope looped around and around and Around, make a great noose. But Tied on the truck roof, bolt upright?-- A horse! Carousel horse, shining black tail Aloft, streaming mane in dawn sun--that How it’s done? Pony by pony by Carny in caravan, till on the platform Corralled, the tune starts: out The gate! Around and around and Around, up and down, night and day. In The truck, a young couple--his face hid by Hat, her dark hair pulled back. On the rear Bumper, a torn Spanish radio Sticker. Inside, from the mirror hangs Some type ID--migrant labor? And too, A rosary. Well, hope that helps: stern Voice on my radio news warns of farm Runoff, birth defects, water--of Course! It’s a rocking-horse, plunging Forth, bucking the wind, wild painted Stargazer’s eye rolling high, trailblazing For a heaped cargo of blue jeans, two Hoes with odd handles, some Book tossed on top, and a kid’s Muddy trike. Nothing costs Much, and nothing Must be lost. But why bind that Horse, with its perilous shuddering Lurching, upright? A sight no blind Marshal could miss. What kind of Marriage is this? Dad shouting, “Fine then, we’ll take the damn Horse”? Or did he just feel Their mute glances, and go for The rope? Passing, I glimpse through windowglass Two faces dimmed by fine Dust: eyes too tired for morning Hold straight to the road. The kid, I can’t see. Could be Lying down, rocked to sleep By the sound--creak thump, creak Thump--from on high, parents Praying it stays up till they’ve Covered ground: trusty Steed bound with rope, around And around and around. The Shadows of the Bad Boys The shadows of the bad boys crouched like ghosts In the corners of my eyes. That night Each hour I lay watchful, nose on paws, though The metal box that held me kept me Blind, in the row of boxes out behind The Pound, where the unwanted Are deposited. A person very large, Amused by my small size, had spied me Slowing, never stopping, by the curb--and Dropped me through the black slot Like a letter. I am small, but I am Clever: I stayed quite still, so Bad boys would not hear. If that Box were grave or shelter, who Could say? When at dawn The man poked in, some dogs lay Dead. Not me: all night I licked And licked my leg, the broken one, and The other broken one. All night I licked them, and I lived. They had Thrown me for a football, the bad boys. So Now in my new home, I play no Game. My new Master laid out many Toys: a ball, a staring doll, a not-real Bone. I turned away. A smaller ball She found for me. I turned away. Crouching, She bent to my eyes. Next day She drove me to the Pound. She Did not leave me there. She left The toys. Nine toys: and there are Nine metal boxes. On a quilt Upon her lap she held me, kept me, through The snow months, while I wore Two itching casts. Now I walk Better: but no matter. What Matters is, I licked and licked My legs. And with the shadows Of the bad boys in my eyes, on My warm quilt each day I stay Quite still. And I always will.
Shelley Shaver was raised in West Texas and currently lives in Northern California. Her work has appeared previously in The Los Angeles Review of Books and The Seattle Star. You can see more of her work at dustbowlstory.wordpress.com and shelleyshaver.blogspot.com.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal 