1/17/2018 Poetry by William R. Soldan Mandee CC Winnipeg We were only a few months into this, us, this thing we have, when her uncle wrapped his hand around mine like a vise only doing what it was made for and said, Welcome to the family. I listened for the unspoken note beneath it, the one that had trailed every first love since the second grade, but then they pulled me into the fold and slapped my back. I waited. And now, these men talking of hockey and horses instead of dope and prison. Celluloid negatives of the ones that live in my strands, whom I’ve only ever known in faded snapshots and bygone summers, but who emerge at the worst of times. At the Opium we drink, and I speak with that lilt of drawn out vowels and slightly upturned phrases, all in good humor till I can’t stop myself. I gauge the reaction of the bartender, who’s been kicking us every couple on the house because the night is young and the house is dead. He’s a good sport. My old man’s from Wisconsin. Got family there. You all remind me of them, only less pissed off all the time, ya knooow? Out on the street, a man and woman, First Nations, share their curb with us and we croon together, he and I, and I think, Who am I to feel displaced? The woman keeps telling the woman I love she loves her style, and the woman I love gives the woman her skirt, and that’s part of why I love her. The woman cries, and they spin in circles. The man and I share drinks from a bottle of Kokanee beer. What we speak of is anyone’s guess and matters little. He chants at the moon, and I listen. In case this is the rest of our life. In case this is all there is. Street Kid’s Guide to Coming up Aces in Columbus, Ohio Key to making it’s this: First, stop caring. Standards of living—bring ‘em down. Especially in warmer months—May through September things really open up; winter gets tricky, but there’s always migrate west or south or, if you’re really desperate, borrow an address, some digits, get a job till things thaw out. Only if you’re desperate, understand. Next thing’s knowing Jimmy John’s offs their day-old bread for fifty cents, a little over three cents an inch, so jump on it. Ain’t tough to come up with a couple quarters, and bread’ll keep you going a long time. Then hit up the UDF Dumpsters on High, usually good for a sixer or two of expired brew. Bread, brew, a guy’s got practically everything he needs. Smokes—strangers can be good for one on the street, but posting up outside the Shell station or wherever is how you do it; most cats’ll oblige when you catch ‘em peeling the strip off a fresh pack. When all else fails, the snipes in the ashtray sand outside B-Dubs are some of the longest in town, if you don’t mind sucking on someone else’s filter—and for real if you’ve already hit the needle (come on, ain’t no one judging you here), then what’s a couple germs in the grand scheme? Oh, and there’s those Micky D’s coupons sold in books in summertime: ten sundaes, two bucks—nothing like a spoonful of cool cream on a hot day. That’s the gist. Just remember spare changing’s an art. Bring it. Spit some lines. Pick a tune. Shit, hit a lick with a grift if it’s in you. If you got the steady hands and can keep straight your bent truths. Finally, you’ll need a place to sleep after coming down from running hard (because that’s how we do out here), a few hours to reset or a whole day through. And in a town like this, for real there’s always somebody. So Fast, So Close I. Your mother tells you about emancipation, a way for you to be on your own, since it’s what you want. Think about how maybe it’s best for you both. Just sign on the line. Only once you do, you can’t turn back. Can’t return to wrist slaps and second chances. II. The Petra station doesn’t card and lets you run a tab. And why not? You’re steady and they know where you live, tell you so when you say, Toss it on what I owe you. They show you the shotgun, and you know the deal. Nothing subtle, just what it is. You come in to cash a check, settle up and start over. Had some work, a friend of a friend knew a guy. Enough to get square. Back at the house one of your roommates is in the driveway talking to some sketchy looking dude you’ve never seen. You’re about twenty ounces down then flat on your back in an upstairs room staring into a pistol’s cold pupil. Everyone’s on the floor. Don’t even know how many there are because you’re not about to move a muscle to count. Then it goes from bad to full-on ugly when they take the girls right there—nothing you can do but listen to the sounds of it. You know it’s over when someone says, You seen our faces, now you gotta die. They crack jokes and leave down the back stairs. You read about it in the paper, in the mall of all places, looking at words that are supposed to tell what happened while all around you people move in and out of stores, safe and flush and miles away. You console yourself with the dubious truth that if you’d have acted lives would have been lost. You’d be gone. One day you’ll write about it in fragments and failed metaphors. Trying to make it mean something. But for now you move on. You get by. It’s what you do. III. And this is where you see her first, twirling a mad mezcal dervish in the damp grass. Long skirt and bare arms. But it really begins when she lays her feet, crossed at the ankles, casual as slow honey in your lap. You can’t keep your hands off each other after that. Fuck in the water and in the trees, on table tops. Washing machines. Every cliché. Fuck because Love could take more than either of you’ve got to give. IV. Talking books and music and other tastes and tasting each other on the floor of your friend’s apartment as the early morning blue bleeds through an empty bum-jug of cheap Sangria. You make her coffee and share the last cigarette, which marks a great transition. Let’s not call it a thing, she says. No, you agree. Not a thing. But neither of you are stupid enough to believe it. V. You have a scare and tell yourself, I would have done right, would have stepped up. And then again to call your bluff. VI. Five days old and he lies in a blindfold under UV lights. Jaundice. Head coned from the vacuum. They give you a special blanket to wrap him in when he needs to nurse. But the light is what he needs and the blanket—it just doesn’t seem strong enough so you put him back under the bulb. They prick his heel to test his blood, bilirubin, and he cries, lies unclothed beneath the light. And he cries. All you want is to pick him up and let him see your face. But he needs the light. You need the light. And just like that it all comes back in blinding flashes, all those lows and close calls, and you fear for your child because he is your child. Then the questions spin from one another, from images of all that could go wrong in these first days and the days that follow and on and on until forever comes to a stalling halt. They weave this picture of a life so fiercely sought and fought for, but it knots you up because it’s not just yours anymore. It’s yours. ![]() Bio: William R. Soldan grew up in and around the Rust Belt city of Youngstown, Ohio, where he lives with his wife and two children. A high school dropout and college graduate, he holds a BA in English Literature from Youngstown State University and an MFA from the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts program. His work appears or is forthcoming in publications such as New World Writing, Gordon Square Review, Thuglit, (b)OINK, Anomaly Literary Journal, Ohio’s Best Emerging Poets Anthology, and many others. You can find him at williamrsoldan.com if you'd like to connect. Comments are closed.
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