five poems
by Tobi Alfier
Father and Wife
He kneels in a corner
of his garden, the claw
of an old hand tool of his father’s
poised above the rain-softened
earth. He’s had tulip bulbs
in the fridge waiting for the season
to plant, and now it’s time.
He has a fridge in the greenhouse
so he doesn’t use up space
in the kitchen. He has the tulip
bulbs, some packages of seeds,
and some film for taking photographs
the old fashioned way.
He’s learned many things from
his father and his wife.
All the old garden tools
were his dad’s. You had to polish
them the way you oil baseball
mitts. He doesn’t remember
playing ball with his father,
but the care of all things living
in his garage, his greenhouse
and the non-kitchen refrigerator
stayed in his head, his heart,
reminders of his father
—all kinds of life preservers
can be thrown our way
like these memories and lessons.
His wife says she fell in love
with a man who has emotions.
She taught him to love a bruised-violet
dusk, how the gloaming forever reaches
for the horizon, how the night itself
is a ghost, a woman in smoked-over gold,
how the green on his fingers is scented
like the corner of their garden,
like romance,
like everything ever needed
to turn the earth.
The Quiet of an Empty Patio
Why is she the only one
on this back patio—
multi-colored tables
museum quality chairs
an arched gate to the sidewalk
—arched with moss and ivy
—arched with wildflowers
this couldn’t be anything
but beautiful
and not a soul to listen
with her to the birdsong
in melody to greet
the gray morning,
their splash of laughter
running high, a chorus
in the gleaming softness
of still air.
She sips her bouquet
of saffron tea and honey,
avoids the heated escape
of steam, considers
her own escape as sunlight
begins to slip through the sky
like a prayer. She’s pieced herself
together like the buskers
beginning to unpack themselves
up the street to keep
her company, their horns
enduring like her unhealed
wounds, and she feels validated
in some strange way.
There are days she feels
her mind is traveling—
this morning she’s with
the musicians—
luminous joy.
Avalanche
They sit on a dune
and watch the tide.
Heads spinning with cocktails
everything around them
is instantly gorgeous.
Who is this man. She caught him
when she threw her heart around
like chum, like dust
in an empty diner.
She threw her heart around
and it stuck on him,
amber eyes like sunsets,
smile indescribable,
salt-sweet air, shorebirds
singing yes yes yes.
Escape to the Shore
It’s a long drive inland from the coast. Her car smells of salty skin and melting ice from the cheap $1.99 gas station mini-mart cooler. Her fingers orange from snacks—everyone knows what that means, and the occasional hiccup from a small ginger ale like the nurses gave her when she was in the hospital. But today wasn’t a hospital day, it was a sandy salty day of freedom. Her long skirt floats quietly across her thighs, silver chains around her wrists, you could say there were amulets around her neck but the garnet and silver—to her they were just necklaces, not prayers or incantations, and she knew she’d be able to wear them until the next time she dove into the surf. And it was her choice—the next time she couldn’t bear the thick stench of inner-city streets, the next time her body bent toward the cold black waters of waves miles away. She knows intimately the colors of shame and desire, and she knows intimately what thankfulness means. In the hospital she told herself to take a deep breath honey, you’ll need it, but she doesn’t need to say it today. She stops at church, lights a candle, her eyes following the late sun in high windowpanes. She stops at Rhondas Route 66, sits at the bar, orders a drink to match her necklaces. She lifts the faded blossoms at the bar to her face, inhales their ghosts, rubs the now salty petals gently into her orange fingers. She is forgotten but not gone.
How the Forest Changes My Mind
Today, dusk is a purple sail
sinking at the edge of the world.
Autumn slowly undresses her trees
save those pines in love with green.
It becomes so quiet, the very silence
holds its ear up to the windows.
Wind aloft ripples clouds
that arrive like torn silk,
like a dancer’s skirt that hauls
twice its weight in sorrow.
The forest flutters
with a language it won’t translate.
I don’t know how I can claim beauty
when I hunger for a night of good intentions.
Photo of Tobi Alfier
BIO: Tobi Alfier is a disabled poet. Her credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Louisiana Literature, ONEART, Permafrost, Prosetrics, Ragaire, and Washington Square Review. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).