Kelley White

A Horse Was Wondering Around the House of Mystery

            --the news from Flathead County Police Blotter

and a man drank an entire bottle of vodka and passed
out in the lady’s room. An officer stopped a person wearing
a cow costume who was rolling around on the ground.
A black cow was blending into the middle of the road
and a steer was hanging out on the roadway. The cow
was mooing a lot. Several dogs were running laps
around a ‘No Dogs’ sign. There was some confusion
regarding cats. Someone dialed 911, said “oh my God,”
and hung up. Three horses appeared to be hayless.
An intoxicated man wanted his girlfriend to give his clothes
back. A caller smelled smoke and wanted the fire department
to come see if something was burning, but requested
they do so without lights or sirens, as it was late.  
A cat got its head stuck in a chip bag. A difficult hospital
patient would only take his medicine with ice cream.
Someone was concerned about flyers posted in their neighborhood
about a missing 10-foot python.  A dog bit a horse.

 

Somnambulist

Easter morning, the metal bulkhead creaks open
and I unhook the paint peeled wooden door
at the bottom of the steps. It’s like a helicopter
has been hovering over my life. That warm breeze
tickling my nose with a scent of hyacinth and
magnolia, the taste of a little rain and mown grass
tempting my tongue. Sun, oh dear little furnace
in my own backyard! Jack Rabbit come to the Palace
of Easter Eggs with his own little brownskin girl
bunny! The story was a failure this year. We couldn’t
find the book and the children couldn’t see the screen
from their 6 foot apart story circle. So, rally round
the eggs boys. Grab your baskets, race to the grave
yard. (Yes, we use the graveyard for the hunt.)
Think, a hundred buried Quakers from another century
hear little footsteps, child laughter, shouts, triumphant
greed. Oh children, do not think of what lies
beneath your feet. I won’t tell you. Those little stone
seats, just your size, the ones with names and numbers,
well—there’s no reason you have to know. The Holiday
of the Resurrection is not what you need today. You
just need a story of chocolate and new birth.

Listen, today you have a new cousin, and his name
is Jesus. Born on Easter Eve. Think of it—when you
call on him, Blessed Savior, will he answer? Or will it
be the most natural thing in the world to change
his diaper, burp him, strap him into a car seat?
Where will he go, little Tomas? Little Tomas Jesus?
And you, my little grandson, I’ve nearly let you
run into the street. My creaky knees! I just need to turn
around, creep back to my basement, slam the heavy
metal door and lock the creaking storm door from inside.
But look. I left a little candy on the threshold.

 

Januarius

Here, on this day which might be Epiphany
(or perhaps the day after,) I am thinking of you,
his namesakes, two Drs. Gennaro, Philadelphia
bred, taught by PCOM (college of osteopathic
medicine), and not quite exiled to the ski
mountains of New Hampshire. I think of your son:
beaten and bleeding as a student at Temple,
in the last year when the Phillies won the world
series (2008, funny they won in 1980, the year I arrived
in the city, and 2008, the year that I left,) he a victim
of just random violence (I remember the jangle
of footfalls on cars in the night as the city screamed
‘joy’ at its rare triumph.) Oh, Januarius, blood will boil
today (in this city of sometimes loving brothers,)
if the Eagles fail us and lose yet again (they started out
with such promise, oh alas, Jalen Hurts!) Is it better
to lose now, or to wait ‘til the Superbowl (or World
Series?) (These are tough fans here.) (Note: in Naples
(Italy) vails of the Saint’s blood liquefy and boil
whenever they near the bust holding part of his skull.)
(But only on feast days (eighteen times a year.)
(Except during times of strife, famine, oppression,
 and the election of a Communist mayor.) (Here I cite
Kelly & Rogers, Saints Preserve Us! a most useful
gift, surprisingly, from my ex-husband.) But I digress
(this is all mostly parenthetical) but I do hope your boy
has thriven since, dear Vince and Mandy, (and perhaps
you did find that place down the Jersey Shore (though
personally I’d go for the lakeside camp in New Hampshire.))
Oh, Januarius (your feast day is on my birthday, in September,
not at the start of the year after all) and sometimes
your blood boils furiously, sometimes sluggishly, is it
body heat, or the urging of “the aunts of Saint Gennaro,”
who (again, thank you Kelly & Rogers), “have been known
to shout “Boil! Boil! Boil, damn you!) I believe I’ll end now.

 

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in Philadelphia and New Hampshire. Poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent chapbook is A Field Guide to Northern Tattoos (Main Street Rag Press.) Recipient of 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant she is Poet in Residence at Drexel’s Medical School. Her newest collection, NO. HOPE STREET, was recently published by Kelsay Books.