Dancing with Chowski: Poems by Kari Rhyan

Tristan Loper



1
 
You long-legged before me
Scrawling my nightmares
Across a page
 
Before it was a man
With no pen
And no form
 
Now it’s you before me
Long-legged and waiting
For me to speak
 
“I’m fine,” I say
 
“Ground yourself,”
She tells me
Knowing I’m not here
 
But grounding 
Grinds down every
Everything
 
That piercing, bloody joy
That can only come from
Floating 
 
 

2
 
I can’t write on medication
stretch out on planks
keep them I punch it
 
A hole through the knot
 
I’ll make it my shush
the capsules fall just
the air bleeds out
 
(pick them up)
 
I can’t write on medication
(two no but my one)
said I can’t have a you 
 
if you’re never a now
 
I’ll make it my shush
the capsules fall just
my sun faded
 
(“You in live in half light.”)
 
But I can’t write! I can’t write!
(and you can’t live 
without your we)
 


3
 
Gus sticks out his mitt
For beer money. 
 
He’s scarred from 
Elbow to wrist 
 
On account of his 
 
smoking a Camel 
And pumping gas 
 
A few years back.
 

 
4
 
I walked past a crippled corner
Where a man was
Digging in a ditch six feet down
Preserving the root of a 
centennial dogwood
 
Jerky orange-hatted and hungry
For a fight he said, 
“All this for a fucking tree?!” 
On my heels at my back
He yelled, “Yeah, I said that!”
 


5
 
I come out of the kitchen
and think about 
everything I regret
 
That time with the guy
a name caller
that careless purchase
a paperweight.
 
I move into the living room
And think about
Everything I regret
 
That guy with the gun
could get me killed
the elder with a temper
much worse than mine
 
I sit at the computer
And think about 
Everything I regret
 
shooting down my hair
making way for my 
 
fingers. The tool at the bar
the one who said no and no
the cowardice that enveloped
after she that thing 
the time a friend left my eyes
don’t look at me anymore 
the lie that was discovered 
after coming home 
the milk and the murder
and marrying 
 
all made way for you.
 
 

6
 
I let my wife have chickens to 
leach out her mothering
(She might die in childbirth.)
 
“You bleed too much
to carry,” I say.
“An egg is an egg,” 
 
But she wants to see 
her face.
 
 

7
 
After the dog died
I swept weekly
 
The first week 
Wiry hair in bunny bunches
 
The second
A mound
 
The third 
A wisp on a bristle
 
I swept weakly until
Her hair was gone 
 
 

8
 
A military friend of mine showed
his identification to airport 
security.
 
“You’re a hero!” the officer said.
 
I didn’t know you could tell a hero
by looking at
a card.



9
 
I’m so liberal
I go to Whole Foods
to get
wasted.



Bio: Kari Rhyan's previous work, Standby for Broadcast--a memoir on the dangers of canned patriotism, family loyalty, and discount retail--focused on her time as a Navy nurse in Afghanistan, and has received praise from Kirkus and Blue Ink, and are widely available online. www.krhyan.com