Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

— Virginia Woolf

Ara to Autumn #4

by Jeffrey Tucker

Orange rinds in the sink shout

louder than the speakers, and that’s not right

now that life is one game of spider solitaire

after another, like winning against a deck of cards

is something worthy of a fancy dinner.

 

I want amplifier feedback to speak as a prophet,

like the time I drove the freeway past The Pond,

sky taut above me and clear,

Peter Gabriel leaning on my foot.

I want a guitar like a drill, drums like a war,

bass rising like a sea.

 

But this rain keeps slicking the front walk.

I try, but my strings won’t break.

 

Maybe my wife can take up cello.

As she sits at practice, I will slide behind her

and feel for her bowing, vibration talking

through her spine, finding me. Then

I’ll rake the browning leaves.

 

 

JEFFREY TUCKER’s first full-length collection of poetry, Kill February, was recently chosen by Sage Hill Press as the winner of their Powder Horn Prize; the book will be published before the end of the year. His work has also appeared in Poetry South, Jabberwock Review, Rhino, and elsewhere. When he’s not writing, he runs.

 

The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

© 2016 The Indianola Review

 

 

Orange rinds in the sink shout

louder than the speakers, and that’s not right

now that life is one game of spider solitaire

after another, like winning against a deck of cards

is something worthy of a fancy dinner.

 

I want amplifier feedback to speak as a prophet,

like the time I drove the freeway past The Pond,

sky taut above me and clear,

Peter Gabriel leaning on my foot.

I want a guitar like a drill, drums like a war,

bass rising like a sea.

 

But this rain keeps slicking the front walk.

I try, but my strings won’t break.

 

Maybe my wife can take up cello.

As she sits at practice, I will slide behind her

and feel for her bowing, vibration talking

through her spine, finding me. Then

I’ll rake the browning leaves.