April Poetry: Jill McCabe Johnson

In recognition of Poetry Month, and to celebrate and highlight our treasure trove of Orcas Island poets, Orcas Issues is pleased and honored to again offer daily poetry during April.

Favorite Theater

— by Jill McCabe Johnson ––
Where the wool velvet nap had worn thin,
horsehairs poked through the coarse weave.
Small chips chinked but did not detract
from the grace of mahogany seatbacks.

A pimply faced usher stood near the screen
saying enjoy your drinks, relax, put your feet up.
Elegant old theater, past its glory,
beyond, in that kid’s eyes, restoring.

And so was our marriage, I guess.
It’s been so long, I don’t remember
the film. Afterward, we ate dessert
in the outdoor café. Warm Tucson breeze.

We would have talked about the movie.
Not like years later, when we left the courthouse
to a wan September sun, then shared sidewalk
drinks in Seattle’s Pioneer Square.

Table dusty from road grime, the plastic-covered chairs
unyielding beneath us. We clinked glasses to our futures
as tourists waited in line for the underground tour
regaling those halcyon days before the great fire.

Perched in the Pretendlands

— by Jill McCabe Johnson —

Squint, sailor, as light and sky
bend ‘round masthead and brow.
Lashes filter make-believe suns,
blinking off each recalcitrant swell.

Perched in the Pretendlands,
your blinding prospects a smattering
of heat, fractured as a bee’s eye,
yearning lonely as your hands.

The same way summer’s afternoon
shimmers through the draperies,
a pillar of hovering dust
hung between window and floor.

Parents at work, you home alone,
your first summer deemed old enough
not to cower beneath the bedclothes
nor rattle your lungs in rage.

You perch at the prow of your now-ness,
stuttering through the channels,
flicking switches off and on,
lighting the stars afire.

Every urgency at bay
hush of suspended July
and you could live here forever
couldn’t you

you dazzling mote of moment
you emulsion of memory
you winsome and welcome
watering at the well.

A breeze riffles through the curtain columns,
and you think Great Drama,
Great Future, Great Ness
simmers ‘round each blazing corner.

But today, this mesmerizing now
is your presence, now your brilliance,
now your imminent core.

Soar, but don’t falter.
Sip, but don’t squander.
Now your magnificent more.

Line of Sight

— by Jill McCabe Johnson

Kansas, 1911

Frayed fur, mottled and patchy, the coyote
raised his head, folded back his ears, and answered his mate.

I stood downwind, but he must have heard the crickets,
haphazard in their skitters when startled from my path.

He could hunt beaver, jackrabbits, prairie dogs, or voles,
though what could be easier than plucking off our chickens.

I listened to the plaintive that cry pealed from his chest.
Grace shaped him, despite the mangy coat.

His forelegs leaned into the howl
as I steadied the rifle butt against my shoulder.

My wife feeds our kids with those eggs.
I drew a bead on his head. The other coyote bayed.

I opened steel into sky, opened silence
where splendor once swayed.

(Originally published by Blast Furnace Press)