Details |
Jp Armstrong Poem
My father hauled a dead sea turtle
from a beach in the Florida Keys
he coveted that shell.
I was not allowed to watch, but
I tried to see my father over the dunes
sand spurs in my feet
I pushed upward
over gentle curves of sand
to see the gutting of that sea turtle
wondering how life was removed.
Flies everywhere,
do they kettle or simply swarm over death?
I did not know I was too young.
The angles of my father’s wrist —
he held the knife
his bones and tendons
rippling under his skin
cutting, and cutting
scraping flesh from shell
finalizing death.
My father worked for hours
in the Florida sun
I watched, and watch
to understand this man, I’d never
seen so violent and destructive.
My father never divorced my mother, but
she left him, he left her
the chaotic kettling cycle of a relationship:
One would return, then the other
only to repeat: leave – return – leave…
cutting words sharp angular words.
That shell hung on our wall for years
seeming to decay with the marriage.
There were no hills of sand to hide behind, only hollow doors
no sand spurs to remind me that I had feelings
no sounds of the ocean or seagulls
to cover
the gutting.
I sold that shell to a neighbor kid for fifty cents.
Previously published by Headline Poetry & Press 2019
Copyright © Jeremy Proehl | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Jp Armstrong Poem
The Candlemaker’s Office
was sparsely filled.
The worn brass door knob —
a patina
countless hands
slipping over its surface,
polished and discolored
by each touch.
That oak door —
turning my wrist
lean into it
fighting the rub
door against frame
hearing single pane glass
rattle —
I’d pushed through.
His wall —
dirty darkened oak
framed a wall of glass
allowing The Candlemaker
to gaze
upon
people
machine
if he chose —
yet his view
on equal footing
not elevated
a humble oversight.
Flooring —
off-white asbestos
set in squares
dark from factory dirt
moved by the feet of workers.
A lone green metal desk —
flanked by a single gray file cabinet:
adding machine,
rotary phone,
worn desk blotter,
barometer,
a nameplate
should you not know who he was.
Similar version previously published by Ink, Sweat and Tears 2019
Copyright © Jeremy Proehl | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Jp Armstrong Poem
deer step through frost smoke
forage, taut skin over ribs
ice falling splashes
Previously published by Poetry Pea 2020
Copyright © Jeremy Proehl | Year Posted 2020
|