from my first collection, Meteorology
Gray sky, white river. A chipmunk drinks from a water fountain. On the far bank, leaves stir in the hold of a river barge, yellow paint rusting to orange. A man drags a brick from a burnt-out warehouse and heaves it onto his pickup. He has no sons to help him, or to ask what they think of that when the host of the all-talk gospel show tells a caller what to do about the in-laws’ constant visits, citing Scripture: chapter, verse. Someone has written HELL AWAITS on a railing in the middle of the bridge. FRANK AND ARMAND WORKING warns a girder nearby. In the stadium to the right, a thousand men and women throw their arms wide, and singing, jump, and the leaves of the great elms flutter on their stems, each one distinct, and this is one game we haven't lost. The light falls on a hillside, skips the one beside it, falls further down, the clouds changing too, each with its season, so that the valley swings out of sight and opens again to the next one and the next and the one after that; but how can it be beautiful to want sons this badly, and not be given any sons?
Return to Home Page images and text © by Alpay Ulku
