Conception Waltz
late afternoon out to the barn
key and Motor Medic in hand
rain of rust, door rolls open—
’57 F150, once with custom pipes
and running boards
door locks never used not even once
lift the steel hood, tighten the cables
on the battery new just last week
pull out the cardboard scrap to check
the geography of the countries of stains
chrome of the door handle that’s flaked in your hands
since Dad had to lift you up to open it yourself
hinges and your voice both
grinding scratches so long
since either prayed
the smell of him might still remain
the imprint of his left thumb on
the flat of the choke throttle
youtube says pull it one half inch
but it’s the heart that looks now, seeing
more than a camera ever could
pull the lever as far as it will come
spray WD-40, slide it in and out again
until you feel you’ve reached the end
when were keys ever so small?
Turning and hoping
turning and holding breath
turning and a click and a sputter
and then the waltz of feet & hand:
pedal choke clutch
pedal choke clutch
pedal choke clutch
sputter and die
sputter and gasp
sputter and shudder
and then
the closest purr to the purr the engine purred
for him that this truck will know again
Let the engine run
lie down across the seat
decades of dust and still the smell
of hay and ponies and the Carhartts
soaked with gas and oil he
wore home from work
six days a week
perfume of a life lived with
limited choices, pony manure enough
to grow tomatoes wider than
a supper plate
stretching out along my back the jerky
engine’s idle, the rocking of the rhythm
to which I was conceived
Singin’ this will be the day
How much wood would
a woodchuck chuck
if a woodchuck had a
pickup truck, a chainsaw, an axe dull,
and one sharp awl?
1 cord 2 cords 3 cords, more
10 cords 11 cords a dozen cords haul!
I have a rocket in my pocket
I have no time to play but time anyway
to eat my peas with honey
which kept them on the knife, until
not last night but the night
before when 24 robbers came
to my door.
Scholastic Book Club, A Rocket in My Pocket:
the rhymes and chants of young Americans,
best 25¢ I ever spent on a
book, my source book, my head
when left too quiet begins
to chant these poems, beats of a life
in a predictable 4/4, comfortable
cadence of country music.
Eastbound and down, loaded up and
lonely teenage broncin’ buck, pink carnation,
pickup truck, I knew I was out of
luck the day the music
Ossuary
boy do I have a bone to pick with you, bones, so make
no bones about it but rather better bone up on it now
that you’re the rag and bone man, dancing a final
dog and pony show, throw me a bone, I’ll grab hold tight,
as if that were all my life is now, which is today’s
bone of contention
come look close then closer, to see what was bred
in my bones, yes we’ll dig for the bones in it, measure
the skeletons that skulk in my closet, and after give rest
to my weary bones
the doctor says: bones are covered by a thin layer of tissue called the periosteum
knick knack paddy whack the quickest dog
gets the fat off the bone, the slowest suckles
meal out of marrow while my bones
cleaveth to my skin, and to my flesh—
about this, there are most surely no bones but
dem bones, dem dry dry bones
the doctor says: it is the nerves in the periosteum that “feel” bone pain
dying rot that is my bone closet, bitterest
closet where my boners were forced to hide, my want
as dry as a bone coat, mouth crammed so full of bone
dust and sawdust that I’ll never know the taste of what
the preacher said: the good is oft interred with their bones
the doctor says: and for this bone pain there is no remedy
oh tales of blood and bone, the talking bone,
the telling bone, rattling bones, tattling bones,
rolled them bones and took my chance
still Death it was got the bigger half
of my wishbone
fe fi foh fum
Death smells the blood of every one
and grinds their bones to make
his bread, here at bone idle, here
at bone dry, here where you can make
no bones about that
Wedding Dance
Lawfully married at twenty-five husband
lawfully married at fifteen wife,
two faces, startled, they’d not expected the flash
two hands, posed by order on the knife.
Two faces, paled, foregrounded by the flash
anxious hands, trembling, so photo’s blurry knife.
Can you believe so-late-to-be-married husband?
What is she doing, so-young-to-be-married wife?
He’s marrying who? husband,
wed so soon after death had come for his life—
watching his best friend burn in drag race crash—
then drafted, so people were happy he found a wife.
On base the minister said too young so they dashed
to find any preacher who’d declare man and wife,
there, ’58 in Fort Hood, watching Elvis drive past, and that
was the day’s story they told the rest of their lives,
these newly weds, for whom keeping secrets was custom
and silence and lies just how you tried to save your life.
Husband to mask grief, wife, a do-anything-dash
to leave father’s house, so focus the camera on the shiny knife!
Secrets crushed under silence so bestly, bestly kept, and
then soon a baby, then soon two more, and so they grew a life
pinned down in photos, truths dark backgrounded by the flash.
Look—he, a trying-to-be husband, look—she, a loving wife.
Elliott batTzedek is a Pushcart-prize nominated poet and liturgist. She is the recipient of the Robert Bly translation prize, judged by Martha Collins, and a Leeway Foundation Art and Change Award. She works in four slightly different parts of the bookselling industry, and also as a liturgist for Jewish communities across the U.S. Her poems and translations have been published in American Poetry Review, Massachusetts Review, The Broadkill Review, Lilith, I-70 Review, Hunger Mountain Review, Sakura Review, Apiary, Cahoodaloodaling, Naugatuck River Review, Poemeleon, and Philadelphia Stories. Her chapbook the enkindled coal of my tongue was published in January 2017 by Wicked Banshee Press. A chapbook of translations from Shez, A Necklace of White Pearls, is forthcoming from Moonstone Press in 2024.
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