A Thousand Sexy Wives
after Ander Monson
They walk all over town, carrying movies in their hands, skin like wine and
cherries. Their feet stipple the sidewalks and roads. The husbands are lost,
or they are by their side, or they are lost. They walk. On cobblestone streets,
historic stone roads grouted with grass and weed. They walk up hills, ankles
wobbling. They cannot be slowed. They are lonely and committed to their
sadness. They are sexy as old wars, hearts empty as a movie set, empty as a
diamond, empty as geography. These banded women, their drowsy, wanton
honor. They are relic and untouchable. They move older than direction, under
timelapse skies. Their bodies urge them to the tallgrass field with a thousand
junked VCRs and microwaves and plastic refrigerators convalescing where the
frogs of this world hide, parting the blades of grass, waiting to sing to them.
The Saint in My Closet
The saint in my closet sees burdens
all around. He says they are on my lawn
and on the way in. I lock the windows.
We’re fine, I say. No burdens in here.
He sighs. That holy light behind his head
makes it hard for me to sleep. He had a dream
where a vine grew from his tongue to heaven,
bursting with fruit. This pleased him but I know
it’s only a dream thing. He’s never
brought me anything to eat, not one thing.
He says I have chanced upon weeds, my brothers,
That wear the color of wheat, To choke
the good seed. He talks like that. He’s a saint.
Heresy is this big problem for him.
He warns me of heresy so I say
Don’t look at me. I’m the one with a saint
in my closet. It’s not like I’m torturing
him or anything. I just want him to hang
there and shut up for a second. I see
burdens, he says. They’re coming your way.
When someone finally visits me
he tells me Bend down, and put that person
on your back and I’m like, I have a job.
I own a car. But he’s all, People need
to be carried. God doesn’t like more than one
set of footprints, especially when walking
on a beach and I said, didn’t He send
Someone to take care of all of this?
Tell the truth, I’m about sick of this guy.
But I did what he said and this person
gets up on my back and I walk a while
and this visitor said it was O.K.,
but then never came back.
The saint’s eyes
pierced, like they always do. I should tell him
Take a hike, get out and go find your own
burdens, but he wouldn’t last ten minutes
outside. Nobody would listen to him.
His heart, pained as it is, is in the right
place. Maybe if I seal the door’s edges,
that would darken his crazy head of light.
Chris Haven is the author of Bone Seeker, a book of poems from NYQ Books, and Nesting Habits of Flightless Birds, a collection of stories from Tailwinds Press. His poems and stories can be found in journals including The Southern Review, Cincinnati Review, Pleiades, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Kenyon Review. One of his stories is listed in Best American Short Stories 2020. He lives with his family in Grand Rapids, Michigan where he teaches courses in writing and style at Grand Valley State University.
Photo by Lee Bennett on Foter.com