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Weekend Pass
Sunday evening and sentries’ eyes
owl at the Sun’s artillery hole in the West.
They know flocks of khaki-clad G.I.’s,
wings tucked in pockets, will pigeon-toe home to nest.
Some trim their chatter and calm their feet,
others clog to a hip-hop or a rock which
whistles its score from the tip of its tongue
to the bottom of its leathery soles.
A guard nabs one who sways like wind-in-wheat
and waters on the chapel lawn. Bankrolls
and bangles have vanished. Strands of “Taps” are hung
upon the straightened air. The post becomes
the plaything of a child, the crux of dreams.
The drastic children are all tidy now.
Their thoughts are simplified and fall like snow,
except for one or two who stray awake
and think of home or sweetheart or a joke.
Corrida
To a distant Paso Doble
the lead horse enters.
The matadors file in,
swaying on the softness of sandals
and palming their hats.
Everything is primary
waiting for the sacrifice to start.
The bull plunges through darkness
into the pupil of the ring
and stands lost in the hungry clamor.
The cape coaxes him and he dips
hoofs in soil to rush through a swish
of litmus pink.
He aims at skill
to betray him with his own strength,
and style to make skill a ritual.
Bent with blood-leak, he takes
the sword in his horns and is spun
into a dizzy halo of flies.
The contest unwinds like a reel.
Only the final stroke seems real,
the flash in the pan of his skull,
making the nerves contract and loosen
and the tongue loll out like a ribbon,
with fists of roses
on arena sand.
Andrew H. Oerke: Poems of his have appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, Poetry, and in numerous other magazines. In 2006 two new books of my poetry, African Stiltdancer and San Miguel de Allende, were published jointly by Swan Books and the UN Society for Writers and Artists. They have received the United Nations Literature Award. His most recent book, Never Seek to Tell Thy Love, was published in 2010.
Email: Andrew H. Oerke
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