Three Poems
Copyright 2004 Joanne Lowery


Altitude

Morning fog duped Jack
by hiding the vine's
Himalayan head.
Every beanstalk must end.

Only his didn't.
How much further?
A button from his shirt
became a hailstone

never seen again.
Elevation is totally different,
high ground still attached
to terra firma

instead of empty interim.
There he swayed.
Leaves trembled,
pods clenched their seams.

Clouds kept pretending
to halo his head.
When a red circle
screamed he hoped

for morning. For bed.
Dells of vapor. Fame.
Not fear pinnacled,
blood's iron plunging.


Western Kansas, 1846

At least no one was hurt.
The muledrivers of this caravan
didn't have enough guns to really resist
the Pawnees who plundered their wagons.
It was a little after dawn, bright October,
and when the Indians burned ten barrels of bacon,
the breeze blowing in from the Arkansas River
smelled like breakfast.

Just before they were let go (why? why?)
the men watched 300 sacks of flour split
for the sake of their rough cloth.
The Indians rode off into an early winter landscape:
white dust on sunflowers and thistles,
drifts of milled wheat. For miles around
the prairie glistened with lost profit.


Poseur

A yellow tree juts a hitchhiker hip
at the autumn road.

A ragtag hat of leaves.
A twig of ponytail.
A stride that strives to forget roots.

Goin' somewhere, buddy?
On the run from chill wind?
How long can you ignore
seasonal dishabille?

Without chlorophyll,
what good's your flash of fire
and buttery ease, that flair
for audience?

Beneath the dazzle, arms
wait bare. A ringed heart.
Love's ax. Your dark shape
wintery and true.


-- -- --
Joanne Lowery's poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Spoon River Poetry Review, Laurel Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, New Delta Review, and Poetry East. Her most recent collections are Leper Woman and Other Poems from March Street Press and two chapbooks from Snark Publishing. She lives in Michigan.


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