I am honored to announce the publications of new poetry by the extraordinary poet, Robert Fillman!
Promises
My father didn’t talk
much to me as a kid.
So each sentence glimmered
as if it reflected
his eyes and not the mug
of beer lifted beneath
the yellow kitchen light
those nights on Union Street.
My son’s hesitant Yes
I would like that brings me
back to words my father
never said but guided
into me with his hands,
the even syllables
of a saw pulled across
a two-by-four, the rasp
of a taping knife scraped
over spackle, the smack
of an old baseball trapped
in the web of his glove.
Each act translated back
to a promise of love,
the only way he knew
how to cure the silence.
Omen
The mountain as severe
as my grandfather’s brow
in that small airless room
during his final hours,
I see a barn owl soar
out of the ridge’s mouth,
its big head, terrible
eyes cursing all color,
as if it were hell-bent
on draining the season
of red maple, black gum—
every leaf a target.
It doesn’t seem to know
the difference between
misery and mercy,
the living and the dead,
that my grandfather warned
Go easy on your kids
before he closed his eyes
and slipped away his hand.
My body suddenly
tight, bracing for a blow,
as if I am the prey,
a small, soft animal,
yet I’m surprised to feel
a fluff of brown feathers
then a rush of wings that
beats on, flooding my ears
with what could only be
the sound of a last breath.
The Vanity of It All
Two months into quarantine
and I’m still shaving my head,
scraping a razor across
the curve of my skull every
single night, the edge of each
blade sounding like my mother’s
cheerful voice those mornings she
greeted me at the breakfast
table with pink lips, bluish
black mascara, two eyebrows
perfectly penciled on. Her
uniform for a long day
of chores in an empty house,
the sagging clotheslines, the hours
of stirring sauce on the stove,
all the dirty dishes stacked
in the sink, my father’s shirts
piled for ironing, shower
and toilet always needing
to be scrubbed. In the bathroom
steam I’m staring at myself
in the mirror as I rub
a palm over scalp to feel
some small comfort. I lean in,
clicking my tongue if I spot
even one errant hair I
might have missed, those wisps I am
desperately hiding from
whom? My wife and kids? Maybe
a delivery man or
that nice neighbor who brings us
our groceries? All the while
my mind tries to smooth away
this human need of keeping
up appearances, this strange
compulsion to polish things,
with every swipe of the blade
memories of my mother’s
painted face reflecting bright
in the shine of a brass pot.
And two poems in Innessfree Journal
On date night my wife must choose
between love and food because
her body will not allow
her both, so I ask her to
starve herself in one way so
I can be satisfied in
another. Last night I grew
frustrated by her illness,
selfishly imagining
how every spoonful to her
lips was a cold betrayal,
willingness to twist with pain
on the couch and not with me,
heating pad strapped to her gut,
the nausea setting in,
all color drained from her face,
as if each little swallow
were another nail punching
through the white skin of her breast.
Now I’m left wondering if
my depravity caused this
crucifixion, how all she
craved was a scoop of ice cream
from the cafe down the street,
how I will writhe in hell,
be made to atone for these
wicked thoughts, no saint to save
me, no matter how badly
I hunger for forgiveness.
Learning to Listen
I remind both kids to be
extra good today, insist
their mother doesn’t feel well,
that she has to stay in bed—
and hate myself for it.
Kids
should be able to be kids.
But when my son suddenly
leaps onto the couch and makes
the springs cheep and squeak I snap,
ask why he never listens,
threaten to send him to his
room alone if he doesn’t
stop, my voice breaking apart
when I notice the redness
of his cheeks, the tears that will
follow.
Then I consider
how only moments before
the three of us were huddled
by the window watching four
goldfinches peck at feeders
on our porch, how my daughter
said they were a family
flitting about, their frank chirps
a break from the hard silence.