by Dion O’Reilly

So here’s one about how I smoked
too much pot in high school, smoked
at twilight, next to the cool creek
behind Quik Stop, smoked at break,
near the soccer field, straddling a drain pipe
I named Buckaroo. I hotboxed at lunch
in a ’65 Chevy, so punked with smoke
our throats choaked. I smoked
after school with a kid who was sweet
on me and wild
as a mustang. I smoked
on weekends at Sewer Peak
watching tubular waves
fall in slow mo
as I fried skin off my nose,
and gazed in wonder at my freckles —
cheetah skin, fine blond hairs
on skinny thighs, feet bare
because I couldn’t quite
figure out flip flops or how to get home. Simple
story. No twisted syntax, no hotshot metaphors
turning bic lighters to stars. None of the reasons
I needed such lawless joy, sent
from the oily mind of a plant. Just sun, heat,
the good stink
entering my mind like questions
I’d never asked myself before.

by Dion O’Reilly

There’s no other way to say it . . . John dressed up
in my mother’s blue nylon shift, her bubble

wig and square–toe pumps, found one of her precious
dressage whips, flicked it lightly

on my leg, which made me laugh
that he understood her so well.

Then, in Mother’s regalia, he fucked me hard
in her bed.

I liked the idea of it more than the orgasms
I said, years later, to a famous poet

who said, only a woman would say that,
which I’m sure is untrue.

Sorry to digress from the fucking
because I know the hottest moment

should wait for the end in this genre, but . . .
John wasn’t a man.

Yeah . . . he had a dick, but also,
scrapped inside him, the remnants of a womb,

some ovaries that never turned on.

Before kindergarten, his name was Joan
but after the neighbor tried to rape her

as she walked to school,
they examined her and found . . .

Sorry, I have to stop here because
I don’t know the details,

and he’s been dead for years
from both prostate and breast cancer,

but, somehow, they discovered
his . . . her . . . tiny penis there in the folds,

and twenty years later, we ended up in my parents’ bed,
both of us home from college, my Mother and Father

at a Pasadena horse show.

And just last week . . . I figured out from watching Pose
on Netflix . . . have you seen it?

Watch it for God’s sake . . . how else can we learn anything?
Anyway . . . I realized, my mom

was a Dom! Just like Elektra Abundance, but not as hot,

so I guess my poor little dad was a Sub,
but they couldn’t admit it,

which is why she liked to beat me while he watched
then sneak off to bad.

I said bad. I meant bed, but they were bad —
the torture and then the fucking.

It was a real blow job of a childhood, a lot
of those hiccuping kind of tears,

crouched in corners,

but bless my dear St. John who held inside him
a small girl

who held me and stroked me
after we sanctified my parents bedroom

and he . . . part man,
part woman, saw the half world

I lived in, and made of it
a little theater, a little drag.

by Kim Groninga

The black kitten dead in the road
had the silhouette a child would draw —
a circle and two triangles.

The squirrel my daughter found,
half–paralyzed and dragging his body,
had a white belly like a frog.
All fragile things are frogs.

The house down the road
where two dogs almost died in a fire

has been boarded up all summer.
I remember their tails finally flicking
every time I walk by. We saw the shadow
of their movement on the smoking house —
dark against blue and red lights circling.

The girl raccoon
fought harder to escape us
but she is the one who died in the end.
We could have kept her warmer.
We didn’t know.

The crash–and–burn fledgling rescued
before a lawn mowing
ate some chopped earthworms
from the rehabber (who apologized to the worms)
and returned to his neighborhood
to try to find his mom.

The lobster tank at HyVee
has been empty since the 4th of July.
And the beetle kindly righted in aerobics class
was quickly stomped on by another participant.

Scooter, an old–man beagle,
lost his young–man human
and will live out his days
as desk mascot for a quiet, rural shelter.

by Kim Groninga

Before you were the red truck
for my father

Before you were the red truck
you were tin snips and saw blades,
pumps and scales and screwdrivers.
You were duct–taped injuries
and loads of wood for the winter.
Before the truck, sideburns curled
around your wing–sized ears
and you were drive–ins and cigarettes.
You were 50’s long car Chrysler
and rollerskates and BB guns.
But you weren’t the red truck.

You weren’t. But you were heavy handwriting
in counter–top notebooks and coffee.
You were folded, buttered toast dipped in milk.
Before the truck, ARMY boots enveloped your ankles
and you were peach circus peanuts and songs sung on cassettes.

From what I remember, you were dark blue coveralls.
You were naps on the couch, one arm bent across your eyes. Just
like me.
You were fish sandwiches and dark glasses and Brylcreem.
You were butterscotch malts.
Aftershave.
Cancer.

Then you were the red truck.
And then you were gone.