Poetry By Beth Kanell

fiction of reality CC



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From Nails to Screws
 
Early lessons in how to swing a hammer, drive nails,
and I repeated them for my kids: single parenting means Mom
locates pieces of wood scrap for practice.
 
Didn’t tell my sons though—when I came home from college,
joined Dad as usual in the basement workshop, struggled to drive
screws into his project (no electric drivers then)
 
Dad snickered, turned half away, said (did he practice?) “You still
screw like a girl.” Ha-ha, I suppose. Took decades for me
to cough it back up, spit out disgust.
 
Funny how the early lessons linger: Nails for speed. Screws for
endurance. Strength. Lasting. In my garage workshop I have eight
sizes of screws, only three of nails. All in the wrist.
 
But the later lessons last, too. Electric drill, battery operated,
choices lined up across the “wallet” of drill bits, straight, crossed, stars--
call it agency and know how to use it. Like a girl.
 
 

 

In the Very Air
 
I miss those afternoons of innocence
neighbors perched in deck chairs, cold drinks,
kids calling “Marco!” “Polo!” in the lake
the water slowly darkening under as the sun sets.
When the sky reddened, lipstick streaks
around that lowered light, someone always said
(remember, friend? you were often the one)
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight”
while shouts from the end of the dock declared
last wild leaps by the oldest boys. The girls,
tugging their tightened straps, relaxed at last
because the boys couldn’t pretend they saw
nipples poking through fabric; you asked
me to walk along the sand with you, and I knew
you’d ask me to stay steady. Was I ready?
Simple questions and the shivering delight
of knowing everything would turn out right.
 
Now, widowed and worn, creased and silvered,
I pace my mountain deck, look west, watch
the reddened sky and setting sun: no sailors,
no prediction of delight—instead an owl’s cry
then the bark of a coyote, my own breath
apple-scented from the tree of knowledge:
Red sky now, the smoke of distant forests dying
old trees blazing,  burning. Ring around a rosie
a pocket of limp posies; ashes, ashes
we all fall down.
 
 

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​Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont and writes award-winning features, novels, and poetry. Her novels include This Ardent Flame and The Long Shadow (SPUR Award winner); her short fiction shows up in Lilith and elsewhere. Find her memoirs on Medium, her reviews at the New York Journal of Books, her poems in small well-lit places.