By Melody Wilson
I think of you in stars, and sometimes shit;
the stars illuminate the clutter of your mind,
the shit is in the pickle aisle. It was years
since your edges softened. I was youngest,
liked you suddenly at my mercy,
so when my father refused, I defied him,
wheeled you to the store, pushed your chair
butcher to baker teasing as I chose the turns.
For a moment we laughed—
but the gasp as you reached for olives,
felt your body fail, the odor, the shame
as you glanced to me for help,
the bolts of heaven rattling loose.
I’ve been making excuses for you
since I could speak.
Conceded to the chorus of victims,
even imagined wishing you away—
as if I preferred a tepid sky,
as if a meteor shower
isn’t worth the burn.
As if I blamed you,
but I lied, I lied.
STill life with Wrestlers
after Still life with Meadow Flowers and Roses
–Vincent Van Gogh
Even before I heard it was a suicide
note, Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows
reminded me of you. Tender grain
becomes brittle, abrupt birds become
sky. The road drops into a gully, rises
then ends precisely where a man might
leap into the sun. I want you to know
that even he painted over his failures, like
the Two Men Wrestling. He described
the image to his brother then obscured it
with flowers, a teal vase of irrelevant
blooms. One poppy tilts toward
a corner of the frame as if it already hears
the crows coming. You said there were
cobwebs in your eyes, that they blacked out
the sun, that you dimmed the lights
to drive them back into the dark.
Did you know that drinkers of Absinthe
saw halos? That vodka triggers floaters
in aging eyes? On good days you drove
to Goodwill to buy canvases abandoned
by other artists, primed them with gesso,
struggled again with the seascape
you imagined but never got right.
Geological Time
We dressed you
in your desert coat
expecting wind.
I filched two cigars
to keep then slid the box
into your pocket
and let my fingers graze
the idle hill
of your chest.
Eleven years old and bored on the drive home
from Acton, I point to cliff faces lining the road,
ask What are those colors?
Sandstone, sediment, fault lines.
What I really want is your voice. The car winds
through the pass as your finger traces long arcs
of geological time. These were all mountains
once. Now they’re just hills. Your cigar settles
in the ashtray with a shiver. I imagine the Rockies,
Mt. Fuji, peaks that thrust snow into sky.
The road twists tedious: left, right, up, down;
the sun sets behind us. Were these still mountains
when you were a boy?
Oh no, you say, it takes a very long time.
Your face fades to contour in amber light:
blunt mustache, aviators, creased forehead.
The cigar rises, glows orange then red.
When I hold my breath, I still hear it crackle.
Melody Wilson is a pushcart nominated poet whose poems appear in Pangyrus, VerseDaily, The Fiddlehead, Crab Creek Review, San Pedro River Review and elsewhere. She is pursuing her MFA at Pacific University. Her chapbook, Spineless: Memoir in Invertebrates came out in 2023. Find more of her work at melodywilson.com.