At the Nursing Home
Offered the old folks
my poems. Said
I hoped we could talk and share.
In our circle of chairs, all
sat quiet, maybe confused
or shy.
………..Except one
who struggled to speak,
lips quivering, his tongue
slow, his words
misshapen.
Still, light shone
in his gaze, his fierce intention
to gather the shatters inside,
a stutter of something he ached to say.
And afterwards
he clasped my hand, held the handshake
till I pulled back, dimly grasping
his grip spoke desire
for heartfelt connection.
To which I nodded, turned,
dashed toward an exit, ill-equipped,
stumbling through fog
when language won’t show the way.
_____
An Historic Photo
Two native women toting clay pots, girls really,
arrayed in distinctive patterns
of their clan, have descended
into the canyon, where meager rains pool.
One wades knee-deep and dips
her vessel. The other sits nearby on a sloped
perch of sculpted redrock, waiting
her turn. Both, unhurried, expecting the sun
to pierce with its warmth the shoulders
of their woolen smocks. Heedless now
between shadows. Blinded by the ease
of morning unfolding this day into the next.
A reminder that each of us
teeters on the cliff edge of tectonic
collisions. Both girls
placid as still waters . . .
………..even as the man behind the camera
twists a lens into place and steadies his tripod.
Even as the pace of change
surges
with a shutter’s contraction.
_____
Hungry Bear Pub and Supper Club
Had to veer off the main highway
and follow a backroad through thick woods.
We’d drive up there for Friday night
fish fries, splurge extra dollars Dad earned
for hours of overtime. Paper plates
of crusty walleye, mounds of fries, and coleslaw.
Beer for Mom and Dad. Party cups
of fizzy raspberry punch for us kids.
Lucky — for a couple hours — if we half enjoyed ourselves,
a welcomed escape from bickering and chronic
bitterness. Snippets of laughter, at least
till the outing soured when Dad loitered
overlong with work buddies while Mom waited
for him to fetch her drink. Or Mom
asked to dance and Dad would not. Or
baby sister wet herself and someone forgot
to pack a diaper. Or one of us brothers
stumbled onto a beehive while clambering
over the woodpile out back. An errant spark would ignite
the fuse, and we’d be sitting stiff in the car too soon,
shoulder to shoulder with familiar discomforts,
silent except for tires hissing on the pavement.
Darkness again having descended upon us,
the stars reminding us how far away we were
from understanding how to make a family,
our faltering headlights
struggling to cut a path toward home.
_____
BIO
Lowell Jaeger (Montana Poet Laureate 2017-2019) is founding editor of Many Voices Press and recently edited New Poets of the American West, an anthology of poets from eleven western states. Jaeger is a graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, winner of the Grolier Poetry Peace Prize, and recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Montana Arts Council. He was awarded the Montana Governor’s Humanities Award for his work in promoting civil civic discourse.
