Morning Shift at the Liquor Store
by Adam Valentine
I’m pushing a cartful of box
wine, drinking a root beer,
and I think the guy working
with me must be saying:
what are you dreaming?
So I ask him not to worry
about it. The manager’s
coming in through the back
door. His raincoat echoes
all over the warehouse
like somebody unfolding
a tarp. Suzy turns up the radio
and says: why is it on a Blues
station? She says that bitch
who got fired never did what
she was told to in the first
place, but you can’t say
anything to Suzy or anybody
else if she’s around. Two
Arbor Mist bottles scrape
across each other and sound
like somebody pulling
out a sword in the movies.
A customer says it’s bad
how he always talks
to himself when he’s picking
out his beer for the night,
but I tell him I was listening.
Dawn on Mount Sinai
by Meg Smith
A kitten beholds the downward path,
between stones and a slanted beam.
A Russian Orthodox priest
stands in the same path, with a slate beard,
and eyes of blue, fierce promise.
From the monastery a hymn rises
to St. Catherine.
The sun is her only certain wheel.
A young man from
Lebanon approaches:
“Sabah al kher” — good morning.
All are a benediction.
In the night, I fell.
The cold pebbles of the moon caught me,
as sure as an astronaut’s boot print.
The story of Moses caught me.
The darkness upheld me.
I upheld this lunar landing,
this prayer, in my sleep until waking.
Flames will spring from our feet,
and ashes from the sky.
Culture
by Michael Estabrook
We tried to raise our children
with a modicum of culture:
art, music, theatre, literature, philosophy, history . . .
But today they’re adults and:
Our son, the eldest, wouldn’t touch a play
with a 10-foot pole, abhors museums.
The middle one married a jock
so it’s SPORTSMANIA over there, the children
in softball, basketball, soccer, lacrosse, gymnastics . . .
While the youngest began strong in theatre,
on an academic path towards her PhD,
she washed out and now sells insurance.
Probably all our fault though
because we played classical music
every night during dinner.
American
by Michael Estabrook
The pain flares up when I overdo it
like of course I do
I’m an American after all like when
I’m chain-sawing dead trees or painting a room
or doing too many squats in the gym
you know you shouldn’t be lifting heavy weights
the doc said not with your history of high blood pressure . . .
But I have to now that the whole
sexual thing is behind me
strength training makes me feel like a man again
what other senior do you know
can deadlift 385 quarter squat 510
I still want my girl to be proud of me
like back in high school and confident
I can take care of her . . .
I’m glad you’re so strong she tells me
as I pull the air-conditioners
out of the windows single-handedly
strong like in that nightmare where
I’m visiting my father’s grave
standing at the foot of it when suddenly
the dirt begins to crumble and dissolve
into the darkness below
as if inviting me in . . .
Yes of course I know I need to lose some weight
I’m not an idiot but it’s just
a damn donut for fuck sake
reminding me for some damn reason of when
my first girlfriend dumped me
then got caught by Mr. T making-out in the curtains
backstage with his creepy jackass named Peter . . .
But what can you do that’s life after all
my brother would remind me
sometimes you poke the bear
sometimes the bear
pokes you my daughter would say . . . I only wish
when the pain does flare up and nail me in the back
I wouldn’t cry out like a little girl . . .
I’m a weightlifter after all at least
I tell myself I am like I used to tell myself —
you can be anything you want to be
my daddy used to say —
I was a Dante scholar, a biologist, mythologist,
astronomer, archaeologist, a genealogist discovering
that the first Estabrook — my fifth great grandfather —
came over here from England in 1791
worked his way over as a sawyer on a ship
he wasn’t a carpenter
couldn’t build anything with the boards he made
all he could do was saw them . . .
That kind of sums up the whole damn mess really.