Pulp
Toward Rumford, on the way
to ultrasound my pelvis,
I drive the banks of Androscoggin
pass the desperate papermill.
Pulp gas rises in October,
pine trunks, stacked high,
give up growth. In a low-lit
basement level room, I sense
stomach cells splitting. A nurse
named Andy lubes my belly.
This should be warm, they say.
Sliding through, Andy points out
morning coffee, a bubble traveling.
That dark line, that’s an artery.
There’s something unknown
in my bowel. Back home, I stew
in outdoor dusk, a woodfire
burns me warm, my rocker creaks
and soothes. Overnight, my favorite
maple’s dropped buff leaves
and stands, an x-ray of itself,
branches like nerve endings
silhouetted against hemlocks.
There are pleasant outcomes,
the leaves have no regrets.
This tree I love is young, and so
far from the stink of paper.
I Finally Understand What’s Coming
Such a distant sunlit
head, so white.
An osprey throats
a call too sweet a chirp
for raptors. Thin
bands of cloud
dissipate as wings
cup updraft.
The sky bleeds
fingers in a heaven,
blue, diving at the fish
I’ve become.
So cool, so wide-eyed,
without lids.
Carpet Bombing and A Sheltered Life
Wilson’s wheeled to the live-edge table by my husband. A family shifts a seat or two, houseflies dive-bomb Maine blueberry pie. I grab a local loaf, a soft chive cheese, order the German-style hard cider they call Stein at Absolem. The brew arrives in glasses we call sexy. Beside Dad, their patriarch, named Norm, strikes up conversation. He sports an Air Force cap. My father mentions he was in the Army, Air Corp. World… War… II! Norm exclaims, pets his new best buddy’s shoulder. They go on and on about Midwest basic training, how it built strong men, how the Brits couldn’t aim for shit so invented carpet bombing. There’s a big bruise on Norm’s arm. Seems yesterday, he fell in a dried-up brook while cutting his daughter’s blackberry cane. Norm’s a sweet guy, turns to Stephen, asks, So, who are you to these fellas? He replies, We’re married. Wilson’s my father-in-law. Norm swats at a fly and misses, doesn’t skip a beat. Huh! he says, You’re the first ones I’ve met! A pause, like he’s remembered someone – I guess I’ve led a sheltered life.
Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth, published by Indolent Books, The Unbuttoned Eye, from 3: A Taos Press and The Heavy of Human Clouds, forthcoming from 3: A Taos Press. Among other publications, his poetry appears in Crab Orchard Review, Lana Turner Journal, the Maine Review, the Massachusetts Review and Shenandoah. He is a Maine-based poet and the recipient of a 2022 artist residency at Monson Arts. Additional information can be found at robertcarr.org