a man from Stockton killed a bear
November 13, 1976, the paddock’s underside
in white paint scrawl declares. You
hadn’t been killed yet and I
was giddy buying two pieces of Samsonite luggage
French’s mustard yellow, from Ferrari Brothers
the center of town at Main and Board
by the one traffic light.
Autumn, 1976, had already seen death by
motorcycle, murder, age -
you were simply number five of eight
the royal flush culminated Christmas morn.
I’m trying to keep the cook stove going but
too hot too often for too long
has buckled and split the iron. This
is where Ravens slip in - a ribbon of smoke
on their way to the river that rests in September sunset
How well one can follow the replacement instructions
for an Aladdin Loxon Mantle made in Brasil written clearly
on yellowed crumbled sheafs - its mothy scraps carried
by a ghosted breeze white foam river
floating down this Milky Way
a spangled spattering of stars
poured lubriciously from stalis containers
a birded broadcast of straw.
red dot wattles
she is unfazed by the two toms
blustering full tail fans
their aggression flaming skin heads blue
and wattles blood red – the size of a boy’s scrotum
the toms square off, rotate slowly captured
by competition & narrowed vision
the jennies steal the moment to feed freely
spring fresh, prize nuggets, before males gobble
such life bearing delicacies – last fall’s partridge berries
this year’s bugs n beetles
toms drop their wings and push inflated chests
heave their presence – steady pressure – together
repel apart to press against presumed inferiority
in this open field where raptor drones glide
coyote & grey fox pace in wood line shadows
Frame
happy as summers with stinging bees that chase
children through fields - across lawns
dancing in the basement on rainy days
pillows stuffed in tee shirts and warmup pants
summer crew cuts still bristly
laughter and squeals – we are the California Raisins
this memory i hold in my heart
in my hands a circular picture frame
my left thumb strokes enamel pink & greens
mauve variations encase red rhinestone
bodies with Kelly green eyes – rose dappled
morning glories tethered to a pale green vine
wraps ouroborolly – oppositional simultaneously
addictions can be like that
we never saw the scout bee
coming from behind
Suzanne S. Rancourt, Abenaki/Huron, Quebecois, Scottish descent, has authored Billboard in the Clouds, NU Press, (Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas First Book Award,) murmurs at the gate, Unsolicited Press, 2019, Old Stones, New Roads, Main Street Rag Publishing, 2021. Songs of Archilochus, Unsolicited Press, forthcoming October 2023. A USMC and Army Veteran, Suzanne is also a 2x Best of the Net nominee. www.expressive-arts.com