Hobble Creek Review
| Kimberly L. Becker |
Burden
Years lay between genesis and revelation
of the lie. Prize my parents had bought me
off a man at a gas station on Grand
Boulevard, you kept her for me and taught
me how to curry her coat and give her
feed, nudge the bit between her stubborn teeth,
adjust the bridle, tighten the saddle
over her musty striped blanket. You warned
me not to stand behind her lest her kick
could hurt me. My son's first pony ride will
bring back the feel of her hide, those wide eyes
bridged by a blaze of white, the way she'd forage
for green apples fallen from the orchard.
When she died how great was my grief, concrete
against the grief I could neither name nor
understand (divorce with its inherent lies).
Watergate was on TV. Years later--
salve to your conscience, your late contrition,
you tell me the truth: foreseeing a time
when you could no longer make the climb to
the barn (winters were hard), a time when I
would outgrow visits to grandparents,
novelty of a pony, you sold her.
Resurrected by my imagination,
she carries in the hollow of her back
the succession of children who rode her
at birthday parties, those who replaced me,
whereas for me she was always singular.
Since you are old I say the right and soothing
words to assuage your long-borne guilt
(lies can arise from love as well as malice),
yet I will be burdened by wondering
if she in her brute apprehension felt
I had betrayed her. Trust of an animal:
how she'd rummage in my hand for brown sugar
the consistency of sand, my palm wet
with promise and sacrifice. Even though
she is by now surely dead. As you are.
Comely Use
Up early,
watching a bird gather
materials for a nest:
plastic, pine needles, tufts of dog fur,
making comely use of what's at hand (or beak),
I think how late winter, barely spring,
I had you prune
our Rose of Sharon,
but first insisted
you remove the nest nestled at the top
that was jerry-rigged with twigs.
I'd planned to place it somewhere else close by,
but when you finally worked it free
the entire assemblage collapsed
into my outstretched palms.
How the birds must have laughed
at my clinging to what had outlasted its use,
at my forgetting that what has served can be let go
and the same twigs used to build again, and better.
For the Native Dead
I walk along the Tennessee,
Following the bend
Elemental stillness of the stones
Calm of water, dammed to winter level
I detour through a corridor of cedars
Then come upon an ancient burial mound
A jogging path's paved over it
But I choose to walk around
Something should remain sacred,
Some solemn ground
Years lay between genesis and revelation
of the lie. Prize my parents had bought me
off a man at a gas station on Grand
Boulevard, you kept her for me and taught
me how to curry her coat and give her
feed, nudge the bit between her stubborn teeth,
adjust the bridle, tighten the saddle
over her musty striped blanket. You warned
me not to stand behind her lest her kick
could hurt me. My son's first pony ride will
bring back the feel of her hide, those wide eyes
bridged by a blaze of white, the way she'd forage
for green apples fallen from the orchard.
When she died how great was my grief, concrete
against the grief I could neither name nor
understand (divorce with its inherent lies).
Watergate was on TV. Years later--
salve to your conscience, your late contrition,
you tell me the truth: foreseeing a time
when you could no longer make the climb to
the barn (winters were hard), a time when I
would outgrow visits to grandparents,
novelty of a pony, you sold her.
Resurrected by my imagination,
she carries in the hollow of her back
the succession of children who rode her
at birthday parties, those who replaced me,
whereas for me she was always singular.
Since you are old I say the right and soothing
words to assuage your long-borne guilt
(lies can arise from love as well as malice),
yet I will be burdened by wondering
if she in her brute apprehension felt
I had betrayed her. Trust of an animal:
how she'd rummage in my hand for brown sugar
the consistency of sand, my palm wet
with promise and sacrifice. Even though
she is by now surely dead. As you are.
Comely Use
Up early,
watching a bird gather
materials for a nest:
plastic, pine needles, tufts of dog fur,
making comely use of what's at hand (or beak),
I think how late winter, barely spring,
I had you prune
our Rose of Sharon,
but first insisted
you remove the nest nestled at the top
that was jerry-rigged with twigs.
I'd planned to place it somewhere else close by,
but when you finally worked it free
the entire assemblage collapsed
into my outstretched palms.
How the birds must have laughed
at my clinging to what had outlasted its use,
at my forgetting that what has served can be let go
and the same twigs used to build again, and better.
For the Native Dead
I walk along the Tennessee,
Following the bend
Elemental stillness of the stones
Calm of water, dammed to winter level
I detour through a corridor of cedars
Then come upon an ancient burial mound
A jogging path's paved over it
But I choose to walk around
Something should remain sacred,
Some solemn ground
Kimberly L. Becker's poetry appears in other place-conscious
journals such as Borderlands, Snowy Egret, storySouth and Yellow
Medicine Review, and in anthologies such as Kakalak Anthology of
Carolina Poets and Letters to the World. A member of Wordcraft
Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers, she lives in the DC area,
but prefers the Blue Ridge to the Beltway.
journals such as Borderlands, Snowy Egret, storySouth and Yellow
Medicine Review, and in anthologies such as Kakalak Anthology of
Carolina Poets and Letters to the World. A member of Wordcraft
Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers, she lives in the DC area,
but prefers the Blue Ridge to the Beltway.
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