Not All Russians Are Assholes

by Al Ortolani
 
The mailbox is frozen shut. The mailman
smacks the ice away with his fist, drives
down the road towards the next box
planted on a fence post, leaning from years
of constant wind. They are stuffed with
brochures, catalogued
cruises down European rivers, a time-share
on Marco Island, a glossy envelope of hybrid
tomato seeds for the tray in the window.
 
There hasn’t been a real letter to open
since Wi-Fi reached the plains, since Google
ran its highspeed cable next to the barbed wire.
In the church office, the minister
searches conspiracy theories for simple answers
to complex problems. Blades
of winter wheat green-up through the sleet
of today’s storm. In years past,
homesteaders planted Russian seeds
that could survive Kansas winters
when nothing grew
except the hope of meadowlarks.

Mice in the Coal Fields

by Al Ortolani

 
The office car is abandoned
on a spur of railroad track. It is filled
with dust and gray sunlight. Some windows
are locked in their final shutting,
others broken or riveted with .22 caliber holes.
The door hangs on a single hinge, jamb split,
shattered by vandals. The mining company,
long gone under, has stripped the pastures of the coal
that lay soft and bituminous in its belly.
Bills of sale, receipts, orders indecipherable
litter the floor, catch the breeze, flutter like birds.
The miners who made the transition
from deep shaft to strip mining
drew small pensions or moved on to more
promising veins. Mice run the floorboards,
stuffing file cabinets with fescue, bits of letterhead,
mimeographed paperwork. Even in triplicate
commerce is consumed by mildew, by rough
bark dogwood, by switchgrass. The end
of each workday brings more loose shale.
Overhead a turkey buzzard circles, feathers
like piano keys fingered by wind.

Grandchildren in Trees

by Al Ortolani

I try to spot for the youngest climber
as I stand below the thickest fork
where I think if he’s going to fall
he will. The two older ones
have monkeyed on, hurrying
to outdo one another, spiraling up
the main trunk, and then away from it
to the edge of thinness
where they perch like crows. I have
taught them to secure three points of contact
before reaching for the fourth,
to test limbs before trusting them,
but they move with such speed
they barely listen,
climbing with a sense of balance
more innate than learned, taught
not from what I remember in climbing,
but from what they already know.

Labor Day

by Al Ortolani

At summer’s

end, the humming-

bird appears

like an after-

thought, a (  )

between worlds,

a bit of earth

and spirit combined,

small bird

bound by gravity,

hollow bone and

feather, as much

weightless as

hope itself. Wings,

transparent in

flight, race

a scuff heavier

than sunlight.

Swimming Deer

by Al Ortolani

A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.

dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill

Grub Worm

by Al Ortolani

The rain that has been building all morning begins to tap the window. The sash, raised to allow the garden into the bedroom, is enough of a poem for anyone. Ink can only imitate these first drops, the quiet within the curtained room, the breeze kneading muscle, the drizzling calm. Blue jays swing through the sycamore. Already yellowed, its heavy leaves, thickened at the stem, fall like birds.

the spider’s web
collects rain drops, a mist
of late tomatoes