by Myke Leavitt

I am the spirit of fetid cabbage
abandoned in the sun . . .
a hod of mortar mixed
with the sweat and broken backs
of those that lived and died
before me, their lives counted
as nothing more than dirt,
grime packed under nails,
or their dirty children,
ragged and loved, flaking
like paint on brick
that now crumbles around me.

Dented, and sadly rusting
like the hulking grey Pontiac
in the drive, my father comes home
from 16 hours in the mill,
stinking and swearing . . .
hiding whiskey bottles in the cellar,
stacked like coal waiting
for the furnace, a crumpled Camel
butt dangling in his lips . . .
wheezing and cursing
the liquid that fires his heart
and loosens his belt strap
across my back, cursing
my promise just as smoothly
as scotch loosens his tongue . . .
his spirit lost to me.

I am the cursed memory
of the smell of the fetid cabbage
that sneaks under the door,
hiding from the clamber
of the paper machines
and spinning wheels
and the shrieking laughter
of tattered children,
their mothers screaming
for quiet and to be left alone.
The sameness of these sounds
still announces nightfall,
as the lights haunt the river . . .
casting roaring shadows of men
bent under the incessant
hum of the machines.

In the silenced voice
of those memories
my father’s anger turned to dust,
finally crumbling and dying,
buried with the closed factories . . .
the bent lives of coal weary men
and the shrieks of tattered mothers,
children begging to be
left alone.

As I dribble my life out
on the last bits of paper
my father brought home
stolen from the mill,
I still feel the sting
of his belt strap
across my back.

by Myke Leavitt

Carnie bells and barker noise
drip with the promised sin
of popcorn-cotton-candy,
and merry-go-round tilt-a-whirls
spinning peals of laughter
and little big-girl screams.
The Quebecois and brazen tarts
speaking French along the pier,
babble queued up and keyed
with pennies in hand,
two minutes of delicious fear
squeezed out in golden heartbeat
rings and chimes.

The salt air sticks to belly
skin and nipple peek, leering eyes
lusting for Japanese plastic dolls
and kewpie pies, booty spilled
and plied with whiskey-beer
and lipstick soda pop for the kids.
Mother snapping pictures in bellowed
camera frames as the old man hollers.
We jump at his command, holding hands
under sparkling lights popping beneath
the rooftops in colored zip-zapping:
To enter here, the line starts here.

Our calliope eyes dizzy,
spinning and bumping, jostling
for the front of the line, fingers
tight around the next ten cents
extorted from our mother,
The tar walk oozes frosting warm
with pebbles and spit-out gum.
Gulls scream and shit . . .
French fries drown in white vinegar
as the lifeguards hold swim trunk court,
jostling and fondling smiles.
Women twittering and babies crying,
diapers dumped in sand
as the ocean laps at castles
abandoned by children dragged home in cars,
fathers swearing and mothers cursing,
and my siblings begging: more!

With a Jesus-Christ-you-fucking-kids,
my father doles out nickels
for our one last promised ride.
My brother drives the bumper cars
as my sisters straddle painted horses
who have their feet nailed
to sticky candy-flecked floor,
and I-the-oldest told to watch them
as my father darts beneath
a bar sign glaring at the street:
To enter here, the line starts here
and the tickets spit out in ones and threes,
with one left out, and one left over.