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Contributors' notes
R.A. Skeens
What Men Can't Say
Snow; wind's river
roars through the ridge-wood;
whitetail hunker in laurel beds,
lee side of cliffs.
Winter rattles window frames,
howls under the eaves before shooting
the roof's peak and raging
up the hollow. Each crescendo,
the wife shudders under the quilt.
The gray-muzzle red bone,
head sucked in like a mud turtle,
huddles inside his igloo
next to the coal shed;
Grandpa's last gift to me--
coon-dog who chases fox.
The valance waggles
on its rod when the weather-
plastic bellies in the gusts--
season's ebb and flow;
how to hold the wind
in a man when our hands
are trees without leaves?
"Damn dog, ain't worth
a plug nickel." Rising,
I slip on boots, coat,
avoid the question
in the wife's eyes.
Returned, I lie down,
show my back to her;
scratching fleas, ol' Red
plays drums on the dryer-
an off-beat rhythm
macabre as love.
Wolves
October
killed the tree's
leaves; November
beat them bare.
It's Christmas,
and now a cold
front bays the house;
whitetail against a cliff,
I cower in my corner.
The chimney smokes
its bowl, and the wife
stabs yarn with needles.
My flesh
is the sweater
she wants to knit.
Outside, wind howls.
Sleet rakes the window.
A heavy car door slams-
sound like a coffin's lid.
I want to bust
the door from its hinges, and
throw myself to the woods, but
her mother's out
there.
