On a Short Leash
I will never die
high-diving the Golden Gate,
or plunging from a fortieth floor.
Suspect murder.
Acrophobia whispers, You belong to me,
ruffles my hair with the same fingers
that prickle backs of my knees.
I am his docile pet.
The long bridge near my sister’s
rises precipitously,
descends abruptly.
Don’t look down!
But my eyes fly open,
stare through fragile ironwork
into a chasm that seduces.
Palms moist. Legs paralyzed.
Staggeringly aloft
I’m drawn both toward
and away,
gaze into an abyss that winks.
Beckons.
Acrophobia tugs my leash,
knows I will roll over.
The smug bastard
dares speak of free will.
high-diving the Golden Gate,
or plunging from a fortieth floor.
Suspect murder.
Acrophobia whispers, You belong to me,
ruffles my hair with the same fingers
that prickle backs of my knees.
I am his docile pet.
The long bridge near my sister’s
rises precipitously,
descends abruptly.
Don’t look down!
But my eyes fly open,
stare through fragile ironwork
into a chasm that seduces.
Palms moist. Legs paralyzed.
Staggeringly aloft
I’m drawn both toward
and away,
gaze into an abyss that winks.
Beckons.
Acrophobia tugs my leash,
knows I will roll over.
The smug bastard
dares speak of free will.
Tune in Tomorrow
Darla’s husband, Willet, stands on the walk,
shouts her name,
curses her, the lawnmower, and damp grass
that clogs the blade. Inside
she cleans a puddle the cat left.
She wipes. Willet curses.
Finally, she steps out the door into fire.
I think of a time my husband and I argued:
he pulled back a fist,
looked at it in shock, not believing
what he might have done. And Willet,
who knows what he might do?
Families are soap operas,
little lies and big secrets
beyond flickering mid-day screens.
Darla picks up a beer, asks if I’d like one.
She says Willet bought her a pick-up hitch
for her birthday;
year before it was a casting rod.
She speaks of a son so addicted to alcohol
he vomits blood, suffers seizures,
blacks out whole weekends.
Another does four to seven in Folsom.
Stories come at odd times,
sudden unburdenings,
embarrassment of having revealed,
perhaps, too much.
Families are people who hold secrets
because they love you.
They know all the shit, and still, they love.
shouts her name,
curses her, the lawnmower, and damp grass
that clogs the blade. Inside
she cleans a puddle the cat left.
She wipes. Willet curses.
Finally, she steps out the door into fire.
I think of a time my husband and I argued:
he pulled back a fist,
looked at it in shock, not believing
what he might have done. And Willet,
who knows what he might do?
Families are soap operas,
little lies and big secrets
beyond flickering mid-day screens.
Darla picks up a beer, asks if I’d like one.
She says Willet bought her a pick-up hitch
for her birthday;
year before it was a casting rod.
She speaks of a son so addicted to alcohol
he vomits blood, suffers seizures,
blacks out whole weekends.
Another does four to seven in Folsom.
Stories come at odd times,
sudden unburdenings,
embarrassment of having revealed,
perhaps, too much.
Families are people who hold secrets
because they love you.
They know all the shit, and still, they love.
Ann Howells has edited Illya’s Honey for eighteen years, recently taking it digital: www.IllyasHoney.com. Her publications are: Black Crow in Flight (Main Street Rag), Under a Lone Star (Village Books), Letters for My Daughter (Flutter), and Cattlemen & Cadillacs (Dallas Poets Communitys), an anthology of D/FW poets she edited. Her chapbook manuscript, Softly Beating Wings, won the William D. Barney Memorial Chapbook Contest 2017. When not involved in poetry, she like to photograph Texas courthouses and spoil her dogs.
