April Poetry: Why I May Have to Kill Gerry & True North

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

Why I May Have to Kill Gerry

Did you do that as a child, he asks,
gazing at the hooked rug I created last year
and that is so beautiful to me.

Then you’re not a team player, he says
with furrowed brow when I insist I am an introvert
who regenerates in solitude, quietude.

I’ll just go have a tinkle, he says
meaning he needs to pee and everyone knows
grown man don’t say tinkle.

Well no, not actually, he says
when I ask if he has read either of my books
because clearly he does not even begin to get me.

Your bathroom door is crumbling, he says
of the treasure I found at the exchange, and bought for its
layers of paint, yellow, orange, brown.

Never heard of him, he says
of Henry David Thoreau when he asks what I’m reading
and brags that he’s never read an American author.

If you could just rearrange your hair, he says
and how about a cheeky smile, taking another photo
of the woman of his dreams who is not me.

Give us a kiss for good behavior, he says
and slides his hands down to cup my butt after I’ve told him
I don’t see us together in that way, not now not ever.

I think we’re making real progress, he says
after admitting I’m not the first to call him a chauvinist who
believes that well, after all, women do have their place.

If this were my city, house, park, sculpture, he says
from the smug darkness of a provincial grandfather bent on
correcting all things light and lovely.

I could certainly live here, he says
for the dozenth time, reaching to pat my leg and I think
no you could not and if you try I have friends with guns.

I can see you have had a bad time with men, he says
when I tell him it will take a helluva man
to beat no man at all.

Yes, I think. Yes, I have.
Would you care for some sautéed amanita with your eggs?
Have it all, I’m not really hungry.

© Susan Scott

True North

I want to write about instinct.
About the way the doe, drinking at the pond
Her slender neck outstretched,
Lifts her head and looks at me across the water
Alert to the storm blowing up, snow coming down
An unexpected blizzard.
Tension quivers in her slender legs,
Flakes catch in her lashes.
She does not think, this is not so,
Or if it is I shall will it to be different.
Turning north, she obeys her instinct,
Snow-dusted branches close behind her.
There is a point where learning accomplishes nothing.
What is, is and must be acknowledged.
I want to be like the doe.
Exquisite calibration, inexhaustible love,
At the midpoint, returning home, miles to go
And a storm coming up
Sensing true north in my bones, deep in my heart,
Like a prayer.

© Susan Scott