From Heterotopia
Inland Song
In some kind houses the doors
never quite shut. Every table
hosts a bowl of eggs—wooden ones
or striped stone, cool to touch.
What could grow in an egg like that?
A day becomes a story becomes a bird,
a lost seagull who shrinks each time
I describe him. Watch him fold
his filigree wings, crawl into
the shell. His song wasn't much,
but he tries to swallow it,
as if he can retreat
to an ornamental state
of potential. This is not possible,
even in an inland village named
Barnacle. Just brush your fingers
over the eggs as you leave,
memorize the feel of the grain.
The paths are thick with nettles,
but if they sting, rub the blisters
with a fistful of dock. Pain
and consolation grow next
to each other, in some kind
countries. House and wing.
Copyright © 2009 Lesley Wheeler
Scholarship Girl
Liverpool, 1953
The scholarship girl paces to school
along broken sidewalks.
No one has cleaned the war up yet.
She swings her Shakespeare
against the wool on her hip,
her homemade blues.
Because she is tall,
she will play Caesar.
She will be smaller when she grows up.
Cockroaches will do their part.
She will study nursing
and go down to the laundry at night.
First she will tip the door open,
then stretch to reach the chain.
The light will reflect from a thousand
shiny carapaces scuttling away,
shrinking like a skirt in hot water,
like lines forgotten suddenly.
But first there are rationed eggs,
and her sister calling Elephant eyes,
and scholarship girls quarantined
in one crowded classroom.
Caesar’s speeches will deflate
her one hot puff at a time
till she fits in anybody’s pocket:
the starchy white one of the Sister
who docks her bus fare
in fine for laddered stockings,
or mine, or even yours. Listen
for her nails scratching
against the fabric.
Copyright © 2009 Lesley Wheeler
From Heathen
The Unbeliever Takes a Hike
Winter is a cracked path, all the plush of moss
and needles, mulch and soil swept away
by the god of water. I have no choice
but to sit down or follow it, so I follow, day
after heathen day, sometimes watching my feet
lest I trip on an exposed blade of shale,
usually muttering, indiscreet,
since no one is listening. Once in a while
the sheen on the creek will interrupt
my monologue, its coppery greens will spill
into the air and I remember about
the world. Its shadows crowd, its leaves fall
with no display of self-regard, no doubt
that spring will come again with crocus,
clouds, and frilly tender feelings. Devout
branches pray their red beads with breezy hocus-
pocus: they believe in the slanting sun, its power
to bring them to life when it wishes. So, I focus:
I can at least believe in looking. I stare
over the bank's edge, where the burble has skin
like a cold pudding, and see filigreed feathers,
ice shaped like a dove, like some spirit-sign,
where two bare branches dangle in a cross.
Chills. All this nature a prank to take me in.
Copyright © 2009 Lesley Wheeler