Poems by Patrick Carrothers

 

Mockingbird Traps

The really good ones
are made up
of large black umbrellas
big enough to hold cats
or small pigs. A large

black fireman's boot
is good, and should be
dragged slowly through wet grass
after a hard rain. This
allows you to take them alive
and is popular in the north-
east. I prefer

a black silk stocking
strung up on a low cherry
or dogwood, and the waiting
for the twitching
wings, another available
child.

   

Sister

You have mastered tennis
and ruined enough marriages
for one week. Welcome

home. Your arrival
reminds me of the morning
I found stuffed foxes
under the tree, the two
I had seen running into the corn
the summer before. The mirror

down at the Slipper Club
awaits your tanned neck,
it goes well with your travel
notes from the islands.

In my dreams I mention
the Lady's name and endure
the same nausea as before.

You are the fruit
and the flies, Myla.

    

Rio Perdido

Where I come from the flies
are big & lonely. Too fat

& lazy to fly. Friday nights
they ride into town, wearing

little snakeskin jackets
& fish-bone chains, on toads

they've trained. They collect
outside the bars with the loudest

music, dancing & whistling
at dogs. One night I watched

while ten or so tanked ones
jumped a chihuahua like it was some

pile of shit. Whooping & hollering,
eyes blazing like bloodshot

neon dimes, until the dog
just drops over, embarrassed

to death. They were sorry
& didn't mean any harm. Then

they all rode out, back
to the drowsy farms, quietly,

not having won a single friend.

    

It is terrible to be so alone

I've shovelled the horse shit
out of the barn and spread

fresh straw. I've hung
red balloons from the rose

bushes and set the two dogs
on tiptoe. I've dusted

my collection of Japanese
beetles, silenced the june bugs

with the cattle-prod. I've placed
white stones around the garden.

You will enjoy the garden
most, the gladiolas will reach

all the way to your black garter.

    

Advantage of a perfect form

You place the cube
under the trees to see

what it gathers. You
intend to watch it as if

it is your child, but
a bird hangs perfectly still

from a nearby branch and
you go to it. Close up

it is not a bird, but a brass
helmet with a bloody plume.

Back, you find the cube
has gathered secrets: when

hard work is not the answer
to success, how snowflakes

brought wealth to Henry Hamblin,
why the time here is not the time

there. You collect them and sew them
to your sleeve. You notice

the helmet does
look something like a parrot.

   

Some nights there is a healing of the so-called incurable diseases

Some nights you grow
towards the poem that looks
like the boot of Italy.
Potatoes crack open
like eggs, teeth fall
out with all their roots
exposed. Some nights

the poem jumps
through hoops of fire,
you put your head between
its jaws a long moment.

Some nights you give birth
to Siamese royalty
and watch to see
which will die in the other's
arms. Other nights

you make the poem
that could go on
indefinitely, you end up
stroking an elephant
in your arms,
enjoying it.

   

Awaiting your return

Night lifts its blue skirt over me.
I lose a gold tooth somewhere

in the folds. The dear cat draws
a full house and keeps a straight face.

I join the spider plant in whisky.
Mother, it will outlive you.

   

Copyright © Patrick Carrothers 1981. Nightingale Traps and Sister were originally published in Accessories, a student literary/arts magazine published by the University of Colorado at Boulder.

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