Two Poems | Andre Peltier
Clear Walloon
To sleep the sleep of days,
cleansed by the water
of clear Walloon.
To sleep the amphibian
sleep of salamanders,
sirens and mudpuppies,
eyes shut tight like
The Annex doors on Sunday morning.
In a den of simplicity,
caring not for the big city
or the shadows in the dark,
caring not for Archduke Ferdinand
or trenches on the horizon.
To sleep the sleep of Milanese warfare.
To sleep the ambulatory sleep
of shell fragments, chocolate
and cigarettes.
The great tragedy still but a mirage
in the shadows
of Appennini and Po.
Camicie Nere of Piazza San Sepolcro
only a glimmer in the eye of Il Duce.
Asleep under the stars
of Bay Township,
under the boughs of aspen,
cedar, and hemlock.
The scent of burning birch
wafts through frozen teardrops
as unstuck lovers hide
in acid rain ashcans,
asleep perchance to scream.
Sleeping the still sad sleep
of Windemere Cottage.
Sleeping in the mill mad music
of malleability.
Down the banks he ran,
paddled across the western arm,
to fly through white pine
and sugar maple.
To sleep under stars
or in warm quilts of the Red Fox.
To cast and land with Vollie Fox,
and it is cold on the water,
and dying is pretty easy,
when you think on it.
“In the old days,
Horton Bay was a lumbering town.”
To slumber in the lumber towns
of northern Michigan,
to sleep the wooden sleep
of Windemere and awaken
to the song of the nuthatch.
Sculpted Fingers
Towards Barstow,
we followed the clouds
and the roadrunners.
Joshua trees along the roadside
stood like silent sentinels
welcoming us to Mojave drought,
to the brush and gravel
of western myth.
Two hours north,
we saw the rooftop of the continent.
Mt. Whitney shined with snow melt
as the deluge bathed Inyo alfalfa
and the apiaries of central California.
After Tuolumne,
birthplace of Lord Buckley,
where Ellie Nesler drew down
and dropped Daniel Mark Driver dead,
where that fascinating contralto
sang with Willie Edouin,
we saw the UFOs of Route 59
and the old bristlecone soul of Methuselah.
In Lone Pine,
Whitney cast her shadow
over the highway leading straight
into southern the smog of tomorrow.
With sunset in the rear-view,
we turned East to Needles.
Long twilight shadows
guiding the wheel,
guiding the way.
Mother road, hushed Mojave reverence.
Mule deer on the roadside
startled by coyote’s cry.
A Gila monster hid beneath
those tumbled rocks,
toxic breath and all. T
hey say once it bites, it won’t let go.
Only George Goodfellow knew for sure.
We stopped for the night
before crossing the carving waters
as the sun rose in our eyes
and in our reflection.
We looked deep to the river bottom,
deep to the history of that American artery
carrying folks west from Chicago, St. Louis, Okemah.
The river cut deep into uplifted staircase.
The river, like Strazza, Sanmartino, Pietro Rossi,
sculpted Kaibab limestone
and sculpted our memory.
In Needles we slept soundly, dreamt of
John Wesley Powell, and ate tacos for breakfast.
When Powell floated with his nine companions,
he didn’t get gas station tacos
or think on tomorrow.
He held on with sculpted fingers.
Held his breath at every turn.
In Needles, the rush of history
weighed lightly on our cares.
In Needles, we knew we’d see tomorrow.
Sculpted fingers on sculpted steering wheel,
we knew we’d see
the smog of tomorrow.
Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash
Bio:
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated poet and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications both online and in print. His poetry collection, Poplandia, is available from Alien Buddha, and his collection Trouble on the Escarpment is available from Back Room Poetry. He has two collections forthcoming in 2023: Petoskey Stones from Finishing Line Press and Ambassador Bridge: Poems from Alien Buddha Press. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books.
