[I can only survive with an addressee…]
I can only survive with an addressee, Hank. With the green and gold teeth of meaning pulled out and nestled
in the garden of another. I’m dusting off the days, looking away from the clapboard horizon.
Once there was time. Space. Hank. Something caprock-sized and bucking underneath, the blizzards late as Easter,
wildflower season, dances at the rodeo grounds, high school lights on Fridays that bled out for miles.
Or rinderpest, bluetongue, hoof and mouth, and how the highway department would dispose of carcasses tossed over the fence line.
There was tragedy, majesty every sundown. Oh, we’re cheated out of so much orange here, Hank. Out of Sunday company and sky.
It should be enough to be From. To be Headed. Just to Be. Any measure of it, Hank,
should quilt-cover the full cot and come with a pillow, should at least be rent-stabilized. It is too much here among the living.
Everyone expects so much out of life. And everyone back home, not enough. Oh, watch,
I’ll wax, Hank. Wax under the barlight until I can ride the cows back home. Make it to magic hour underneath the clothesline.
…
……
This poem is from the chapbook Twenty-Four Covers of a House on Fire by C. Henry Smith (Finishing Line Press), and can be found at https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/twenty-four-covers-of-a-house-on-fire-by-c-henry-smith/
Photo by Sara Seeton
C. Henry Smith is the author of the poetry chapbooks Warren (Ghost City Press) and Twenty-Four Covers of a House on Fire (Finishing Line Press), and his Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated work has appeared in Colorado Review, DMQ Review, Psaltery & Lyre, LIT, and others. He received his BA at St. Edward’s University and his MFA at Oregon State University, and he is grateful for past residencies through Spring Creek Project and Chicago Art Department.
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