telling

by allison linville


Frigid pots, 
lonely itches 
under rugs and 
end tables tipping 
sadly over.  

Long before 
              you went home, 
                           waiting for things to get longer but 
                                                     you really couldn’t wait.  

Not for buses or ripening 
              lemons on the tiny tree or the sun 
                           to rise earlier or the hay to dry 
                                        or the empty box car to stop right in front of where you stood.  

                                        You know the smell when you open it?  Let that slide.  


All the juice, all the juice, all the juice.  
                                                                  This is clementine.  

Slowly glide toward citrus fruits from earlier years, 
              joining up!  

Left behind a steaming
              jade plant, followed by 
                                        the ocean’s best seaweed and 
                                                                  the old insulation puffing out.  

                                                                  Creased buttercream.
  
You say:  pies are only made in the daylight, 
              when your eyes are roughed up and your floor 
                                        walks in front of you.  
                                        So much to tell, to tell, to tell.

postcards to cascadia: m.r. smith

Smith Postcard One Back 2
 


From Lewiston: Whatever room still held / in the heart is filled / by all that remains frontier. / The rocky breaks in the hills / frame the shoulders and hips / of recumbent plainsmen, arrayed / under coarse blankets of endless / grain draping dull ground in full. / The Clearwater drains innocent blood / to later pool in the Pacific under a night sky / taut as a banner pierced by bullets. — M.R. Smith

View postcard image: Cowgirls at the Triangle Ranch Rodeo (Doubleday)