Rose Black - poetry

From her new book - WINTER LIGHT

THE GABLES

Here’s a picture of the USS Rochester, Uncle Victor says. Left Provincetown for shakedown in '47. Eight Pacific tours, six battle stars. And here’s a picture of me, gunnery sergeant, five stripes. Three up and two down. Blood was in the water. I was there, you know, the day you split your chin. You’d been dancing in the bathtub, singing Three Blind Mice. So much blood and you wouldn’t stop screaming. The tomatoes they give you in this place aren’t even red. Skins so tough you can’t cut through them. Ever seen a Hubbard Squash? Real tough skin, and huge. I used to hold them over my head, then smash them open on the sidewalk. Easier than cutting them up. Crows came to eat the seeds. You know, there’s a swallow trapped in the rafters, in the crawl space. I can hear him moving around.

THE TONGUE

A tongue, which had been acting up lately, became unhinged, and slipped out of a man’s mouth during a giant yawn. He picked it up and put it in his pocket, as if he were picking up a stone.

Plums in a tree, plums in a tree, the tongue said from the man’s pocket, how can I get the best for me?

Shut up, the man mouthed. People will think I’m saying that.

Pretend I love her, pretend I care
and take my pleasures anywhere.

Disgusted, the man threw the tongue back onto the road. He’d been to church that morning, and this tongue was not as good as he was.

Less is less and more is more,
steal all I can from rich or poor.

The ants thought the tongue was a talking mountain, and climbed along its tiny furrows and bands.

The man’s head began to grow. It was expanding to contain all the thoughts arriving that he didn’t know what to do with. Soon his head grew unbearably heavy. He stumbled to where he had thrown his tongue, brushed off the ants, and hinged it again to the back of his mouth.

Grab the plums! Grab the plums!