Search results for 'susan o'dell underwood'

Susan O’Dell Underwood. Tick.

15 Feb

TICK

Cruelty went by other names:
necessity, caution, tradition.
My daddy would haul a hound dog to his side,
ribcage firm against ribcage,
and with his free hand search along the short-haired hide
to find each tick stuck like a backward
bloody nipple, suckling, full enough to burst.
The old dogs never skittish of the sulfur smell,
the match he struck burning close enough
to shrivel the tick’s legs and then the tick.
And I was never skittish either,
nuzzling the young pups nose to nose,
calming them that it would be okay.
I couldn’t help wanting to watch each tortured,
sizzling black release of ruptured oily ooze,
the smell of hair and death,
and sometimes even laughing at the yelp
when the flame came close to skin.

Nothing in that memory torments me.
A tick is a nasty creature.
Habits haunt me which they never let me witness—
the calves bawling in the barn at their castration,
the ball-peen hammer cracking the grown steer’s skull.
I found the copperhead already hoed in two
beside the garden lilies.

One day my brother and I
would visit the dog’s pen near the barn
to see her pups. The next day they’d be gone.
No grown up said a word about her pacing solitude.
How did we figure out the strangling or the drowning?
I never saw, yet still see in my mind
their little whiskered faces
puckered up, eyes closed and wincing
for one more breath,
and someone’s hand I loved
moving to choose another.

new poem. Susan O’Dell Underwood. Specter.

24 Sep

SPECTER

Associate those days with hives of bees,
black snakes along the hewn foundations of barns.

It is a conjugation of memory.

We ran through the mowed yard
and flung the dark aside with sparklers,
singeing phosphorescent lines into the black,
a fleeting alphabet of who we were.

They told us others answered those names before us,
the gruesome old and putway dead.
No one would ever catch us just by calling.
The grass went cool to easy dew
beneath our pommeling feet.

Sometimes they even said—as if in verse—whose feet,
whose toes, whose eyes, whose hair.
They disagreed.
“No, he looks just like himself,”
someone would finally declare, as if it were a joke,
a lie, a lesson yet to come.

We never owned a toy big as that nighttime,
ignited in frivolity of flesh and fire,
the smell of gunpowder on our fingertips.

Our lights sizzled, white-blinding us
to where they waited,
saying things we couldn’t fathom
while we burned the last minutes to pieces,
until finally we had no excuse except to come inside,
but not until every last
shriveled dust of wire was spent.

Sparkler


Badger, Party of 7

HOMESCHOOLING MOTHER OF 5, ALL THINGS DOMESTIC, MY CRAZY LIFE

BOOK RIOT

Book Recommendations and Reviews

james (w) moore

unreliable writings/ramblings

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction

Vinita Words

It's always about writing...

David J. Bauman

Author of Angels & Adultery

MarLa Sink Druzgal

"Traveling MarLa"

The Drugstore Notebook

Writing about reading

Beth Gilstrap

Writer * Reader * Editor

Anthony Martin

The website of fiction writer Anthony Martin

Anthony Wilson

Poetry, Education, Research

maria engberg

polyaesthetically being in the world...

momoby

Just another WordPress.com site

UnIambic

(The poetry blog of Grant Clauser)

Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics

Just another WordPress.com site

Largehearted Boy

a roominghouse for the servants of the duende.