Three by

 

Mather Schneider

 

 

 

 

MARTYR

 

 

The four-legged metal laundry tank

with the hand-crank wringer

 

is better than the old washboard

but not much.

 

Just ask mom.

You can find her on Sundays

 

up to her elbows in underwear

rank as bottom-feeding

 

flatfish, or turning our filthy overalls

through the pinch-fisted rollers,

 

her tomato-peeling hands

raw, nails yellow and swirling

 

as after-water.  She’ll tell you

the truth, if you ask her

 

while she puts our limp

wet hides to billow

 

and dry between

the twin crosses.

 

 

 

 

AT THAT POINT

 

 

I like to be in the woods in the evening

while mom and dad sit

 

on the picnic table

beneath the psycho-looking sycamore

 

after work is done,

in the thin line

 

between loathing each other

and snoring side by side,

 

in that barely breathable margin

of black cricket truce,

 

them drinking beer or wine,

the cherries of their cigarettes

 

like the distant torches of a search party

and me out in the trees

 

at that point

where I can hear their voices

 

but just a little bit farther

and I cannot, walking

 

that tight rope.

 

 

 

 

THE JEEP

 

 

Dad trades a goat

and two bags of feed

 

for an army surplus Jeep

from a man with a wandering eye

 

and guineas in his kitchen.

I think it’s cool, like G.I. Joe

 

but mom says he is no longer a child.

He parks it in the west field

 

and then can’t get it started again,

spends the whole summer working on it

 

prone on a plywood slab

against the prickly pears

 

pounding his heels in the dirt.

Even when he crawls out

 

we look at his feet while he talks.

One day a drop of gas falls

 

into his ear to the drum

and he bellows as his skull

 

comes up hard against the manifold

before staggering to the barn

 

and crashing in like a drunk.

I hold on to the loft ladder

 

as mom takes his head in her lap

and pets him and hushes him.

 

She dribbles water from a cup 

into his ear, whispers it’ll

 

be ok…we’ll be all right…

promises she wants so bad

 

to come out sure and strong and true

but only choking 

 

as they break

like supper plates, like toys.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mather Schneider’s poetry and prose have appeared in many places since 1994.  He has several books available and lives in Mexico. 

 

 


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