July 2022
Bio Note: After five years of leading the Albuquerque chapter of the New Mexico State Poetry Society, I have passed the torch to a new chair. I have filled some of that “extra” time with teaching poetry classes for Oasis Albuquerque, including two recent classes on haiku, an upcoming one on the ghazal, and a fall series on the sonnet. But this is June, the month for Gay Pride, and I am very pleased to have poems appearing in two brand new LGBTQ+ anthologies, Out Loud LGBTQ+ Literary Art Anthology (Read and Green Press) and Proud to Be: A Pride Poetry Collection (Red Penguin Press).
Homespun Lines
Unsure of where he’ll stray
this time, I listen to his phone voice for a clue:
retreat in Wyoming? residency in Mississippi?
It’s often the best approach to learning how
long he’ll be gone: a week or an extended stay?
He’s been home for a month, so he’s overdue
to write somewhere other than around me.
I know the moment he makes a vow
to be here awhile, he’s thinking of the day
he’ll be elsewhere. He knows it too.
Despite the protests, we both know he’ll flee
to another remote region by scow or snowplow,
whatever it takes to practice his wordplay.
When will I be saying adiós, adieu?
It won’t be long—this I guarantee—
no need to be coy or holier-than-thou:
I’ll be here with the cat and he’ll be away.
East Coast wilderness? West Coast Malibu?
We each have a writing strategy,
but mine comes with a home and a meow.
Bathroom in Gray and Pink
The only bathroom in the two-bedroom home
was the size of a rectangular kitchen table,
yet it contained the necessary porcelain within
its confines: bathtub, sink, and toilet.
Not designed for anyone wider than two feet,
it shrunk smaller after Papa tiled all
four walls, the floor, and even the ceiling
in gray plastic tiles that somehow shimmered.
Granny Rene tempered the gray with an excess
of fluffy, candy-pink: matching bath rug,
toilet seat cover, and tank cover—with
a crocheted cozy in the shape of an obese
pink poodle which covered the extra roll
plopped and centered atop the lid.
Small touches of beauty for a penny-pinching
Chicago truck driver and department clerk,
none of which could hide the ugly truth
of the undersized bathroom or their marriage.
Gate to Hell
We’ve never been the hunters, only the prey.
Our hearts are entrails, meat for packs of beasts.
Well-fed hearts enchanted with marks of the beast.
Kick us to the ditch. Cast us to limbo.
From the ditch, our limbs cast a final kick.
Souls float somewhere, but not toward heaven.
Soulless, we flit in heaven’s dim shadow.
In icy drizzle, graverobbers filch our teeth.
Filthy teeth drizzled with blood, no graves to rob.
The rest of the flesh soon a muddle of bones.
Who meddles with flesh when bones are at rest?
Cerberus unleashed roams across centuries.
Crossed, Cerberus lashes out for centuries.
We’ve always been hunted, even when we pray.
©2022 Scott Wiggerman
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