The Sheep ShearersBy Joe Wilkins
A distinct culture has evolved out of the practice of shearing sheep.
– Wikipedia entry
All long necks and whiskers and three-day hangovers
sweated out on the peeling linoleum of some low-slung camper,
all greasy jeans and pearl snapshirts undone to the belly,
all black coffee and cigarettes and potted meat—
no one respectable, that’s for sure.
Though come March, it wasn’t about respectable.
From behind the old sofa, you watched Johnny Ahern
sprawl in a chair at the kitchen table,
wet trail of snoose dripping from his frog’s chin—
your mother fed him three kinds of pie,
your father shook his gnarled hand—
hand that could take a sheep to skin
in seconds—and said, Thanks for coming, Johnny.
Lord and the devil know we need you.
Skinny as a barn cat, the one that knocked on the door
and came in for chamomile tea and visit with your mother.
Her face was square and small, a ribbon of scar
from ear to chin, and after her small cup she rolled
a cigarette, tapped the ash into her palm. She was one of those
that could have been twenty-three or forty-two. No matter,
what you remember most is how her straw hair
was pulled back with flowers. It was yet mid-winter.
She must have grown them in whichever
rusted Airstream she called home, carried them in her lap
through a thousand icy miles of mountain two-lane,
set them in the sink after the table was broke down
into a marriage bed. And now, ringing her wrecked face—
umber buds, filigree of leaf, a crown of wild rose.
Milk-faced and bare-chested, trousers gone to threads,
they stood in a ragged line and stared at you. You
stared back. They didn’t speak but turned and ran
to the river. So, you followed. Picked up a rock,
like they did, and winged it at a carp. Together,
you floated a hunk of cottonwood to the far bank,
set a muskrat trap, jostled and laughed, and when the sheep
were sheared—the men gone into town for liquor,
women gathering dogs and laundry—
you sat on the steps and worked river mud
from in between your toes, felt with each breath the bluing bruise
on your chest, where, after she threw you to the ground,
that dark-eyed shearer’s girl propped a knee to pin you
and kissed you hard on the mouth.
86 JerseyBy: Abbie Leavens Girls know how to do that— Flaunt their breasts through their blouses, learn how to smile, how to sexy-scowl at the Neanderthal with the number 86 Jersey. He is staked, a little sweaty. His handprint, a coaster for the next Bud Light bottle. When he leaves for the bathroom to piss of his night he shoots you a look like you’d better not leave without me, but you do. This isn’t a happy ending, small town. You know he has your number. You know you answer every time.
The Ash GroveBy: Daisy Wallace
The ash grove we planted is still there;
Dirt under our nails, cricks in our backs, but
We planted all thoserows of trees that day.
They have grown tall with thick, rough, trunks.
The diamonds in the bark are all but gone,
the ridges so deep.
The Tin Lizze is still rusting in the tall grass, but
In a month, a man will come, take it to his garage,
Sand it down,
Rebuild the engine, and the rest.
I’m sorry, but
He will not paint it the pearl violet you always loved.