by Keith Walker

Two doors down
in the neighbor’s
vegetable garden
tilled into the back yard –
the new houses shouldered
old fields gone fallow
and chopped into lots –

a poison-green caterpillar
camouflaged on a fresh
corn stalk caught my eye
with its undulations
and the row of black eyes
wide and lifeless as a shark’s
painted along the segments
of its sides, and the needle
sharp horns.

I lured it onto a leafy twig
and dropped it into a quart jar
with holes nailed in the lid
where lightning bugs
bled out their light.

I misread the head and tail–
horns trailed behind,
the face blunt and faceless–
a mouth ringed
with tiny claws.

I meant to take it to school.
It hadn’t survived the night
but had spent itself
gnawing through my dreams–
through the sky-blue walls
of my little room
and the sailboat curtains
on soft white ropes–
leaving holes in my world
letting in a new dark.

by Keith Walker

It was a little over an hour
from the Scout Hall
to the old Y in Knoxville–
the closest heated pool in
east Tennessee winters.
My father drives his new
baby blue Mercury
with four of the older boys
in Troop 91, and me
in the caravan of fathers
and sons off to earn
their aquatic merits.

Eddie Payne, anchor
of the swim team,
Mike Tabor, captain
of the football team,
Bill Bray, all Eagles,
and Bobby Harmon
who I knew from church.
He was friendlier than most
and we’d shared a tent
until he told me to shine
my new official flashlight
on him naked in his unzipped
sleeping bag and threatened
me if I refused.

I dreaded this outing. I couldn’t swim.
The water was over my head
with no shallow end.
I said I had a cold
and didn’t bring a suit.

My father tried his best–
lifeguard, camp counselor, Navy vet
who moved in water with power
and grace—but I panicked
and flailed until I grabbed
the edge or touched the bottom.

The basement pool was tiled with arched
windowless walls and a low ceiling
echoing every splash and raucous yell.
The steam reeked of chlorine.
I stood at the end of the row
of fathers who eyed me warily.

We stopped for shakes on the way back
Dad’s treat. Soon the straws were peashooters
and wet wads of paper slapped necks
and faces sticking to the windows and doors
I‘d been warned to keep clean–
He didn’t say a word.
He was smiling.
Loud rough housing and wrestling
didn’t bring the threat to stop the car
that backseat squabbles
with my sister did.

During a break in horseplay
he said you’d probably rather be
swimming with the girls
and showing them
how the torpedoes work.
The uncertain silence erupted
into waves of laughter.

Wedged against the backdoor
I sank into myself
unsure who my father was
except that he became himself
with boys who weren’t like me.

by Paul Marion

A hook root anchors kelp
Sea-minerals enrich your blood
Stars move 30 degrees in a month
Good dogs sleep in the sun
A man saws white pine boards
The stone hut dates from ‘41
I’m on a glacier-scraped island
An eclipse-high tide once covered it
Ducks dive to fish
Lobstermen check their traps
Herons stand in treetops
Terns skim the bay
The wind is east
The rope swing sways
An eagle duels two crows for mussels
Dry downed spruce burns fast
5,000-year-old burial ground
Jets cross over us

by Paul Marion

Lauren brought beautiful fruits and veggies for a morning snack.
Her skin glowed like a nectarine. Her hair was short fuzz.
She decorated her hard hat with cut-up bumper sticker:
The first day she ate plum tomatoes. I knew she was her own way,
Not like Diet Coke- and coffee-fiends on our urban salvage team
Who made runs to the Paradise Diner, where you get a lube job
Just sitting at the counter. She showed up late twice in a row,
With a “What can I say?” line, so I said, “You can say,
‘My name is the Vegetable Boss, and I was late’”
One day her dad dropped in, wearing a tropical shirt and sandals,
A big man who stared and stared at what his daughter was onto
“Pleased to meet vou,” we said all around. He left, not convinced.
The girl with fat-free veins didn’t look back when her time rang.
But she seemed to like the way we scraped the walls.