POETRY
Steve Surryhne
3 Poems
Nehi Orange
Just outside of town, a little way beyond the newly blooming, late forties suburbs, where farmland surrounds the road, my parents drive to Boots & Saddles, the country western bar for an end of the day drink with Irene and Cliff. I have been here before-- the familiar neon sign blinking, the hitching post, the actual saddle over the door, the cow skull and the horseshoes on the wall. My father picks me up and sits me on the bar where I feel more secure than on the slippery Naugahyde-covered stools which seem like tall towers from which I fear to fall. Cigarette smoke tints the air blue-grey, the murmur of conversation fills the room-- the women talking together about the men and the men laying out big plans. At one end of the bar two guys slam dice cups down hard in a game of liar's poker. My big moment arrives when they order for me, an ice-cold bottle of Nehi Orange, and life is sweet, I swing my feet from the lip of the bar. On the jukebox the Weavers sing “Good Night Irene.” Cliff plays it for my grandmother, still romancing her in his Texas way. She's hard-headed and practical, but she likes it anyway. And from my perch on the bartop I watch them two-stepping on the dancefloor, around and around real slow in the orange Nehi glow. Mantis A large praying mantis crouches On the worn, weathered wood Of the fort undisturbed By the people peering From a respectful distance. The intricate insect, motionless, Sunning on the doorjamb, Presides there, a tutelary spirit Guarding the threshold. Regal in bearing, Like a living hieroglyph, She turns her pyramidal head, With its outsized glittering eyes And scans without alarm, The human audience. Like a creature from space Just touched down, She seems a messenger From the stars, An alien life-form, As we must be for her, Yet, a denizen of our world too. What was the message For the human spectators Gathered in a circle? Was a mystery offered us In the raised limbs? Like devotees We returned her gesture In mimicry-- And passed with her blessing Through the door. 1956 My father's voice in the predawn dark, his hand on my shoulder as he shakes me awake in the early morning chill. I follow him outside, and join my mother and sister behind the house, where we huddle, facing east, yawning. Obviously there is something that he wants us to see but won't say what it is, mysteriously. A pale glow backlights the distant peaks, at this hour the Central Valley sky is clear of the usual haze. The world is hushed like a breath taken in expectation before an insufflation ignites the sun, which will open like a fan of flame. This early, voices and sounds are muffled, the fowls refuse to remove their beaks from the warm down of their wings, as they amble sideways, away from us, the amber eyes, watchful. Cool and sharp, the odor of oranges fallen from the trees, rises from the unkempt weeds wet with dew, soaking our ankles and feet. Once a backyard garden orchard, we, the current tenants, neglect it now and let it run as it will, untended. Ignoring our grumbling, my father checks his watch and directs us to look southeast, then begins his countdown-- at zero, the sky behind the Sierras suddenly lit up like a photo flashbulb going off, a brilliant instant, then dark. My father says “that was six hundred miles away!” The atomic testing grounds' above ground test went off as planned, fusing into glass the desert sand. |
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