Annette Wick's Collection of Poetry and Stories
(From the upcoming tentatively, but truthfully, titled, "I Never Knew What I Thought")
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How I Learned to Take a Nap
12/8/2009
The household hums in its daily chores:
heat the home, pump the water, let in the light.
A loud thumping comes from below
in the basement laundry -
zippers on hoodies thwack against the side of the dryer,
bass accompaniment to a strange rock song.
Grey has settled between the cottonwood trees
blurring lines between leftover leaves and bark.
Even the grass, while still green, casts a hue
as if to hush and not wake up Spring, not yet, not for a longtime.
The puppy has completed his tasks too:
Dart outside, bark at the half-bitten moon,
relieve his body of impurities from the night before.
Chew Morning Glory seed pods hanging by threads off the trellis.
Lick at pant legs of boys before they climb onto the bus.
Sniff at the base of the trees along sidewalks,
hope for the scent of a new friend or long lost one.
Alert the neighbors across the street
their fake deer is eating up their patch of Vinca vines,
while next door the white wooden deer are kissing.
Dart back in for his daily dose of banana bites
and puppy rubs to strengthen his response
to the long winter about to commence.
Finally, he settles in where love and words flow.
His eye lids flutter slightly
at the sound of the pitter patter on the keyboard
before he slips into slumber.
This is the moment they sing about:
“Sleep in heavenly peace.”
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2/2/2010
Out every night, behind the bungalow where his true love sleeps,
lights twinkle through the shifting branches of the pines.
He climbs high into his observatory,
homemade from sweat and leftover grocery money.
He sets his sights upon the stars,
He can name them all, could since he was nine,
before the light of his parents was snuffed out.
Two galaxies, in particular, he observes,
in space and darkness, away from the glow of
the neighbor’s TV replaying a football contest
where men in tights are beating their chests as if they have
just conquered the world.
Whereby, he already has.
He has leaped beyond the questions of earth’s creation –
and the piercing noises of his two dogs –
into the mystery of luminous stellar explosions.
Each glimpse into the galaxies is cause for him to wonder,
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
is that where Mother and Father are?”
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Becoming Italian
You cannot just “be” Italian
even if you are born into la famiglia.
You must start by teething on buttery pizzelles,
ingesting a bit of anisette to soothe your tummy.
You begin to eat dittalini, little fingers of pasta,
drenched in tomatoes ripened in the summer sun.
You pick them up with chubby hands
and imagine all Italians eating with gusto.
You savor the rind from a chunk of Grana Padano -
nutty, tangy cheese with a wretched stench
that drives your friends away
and all the better, there is more for you.
Your lover thinks of your body
as the Italian countryside,
his fingers rolling through the richness
of rivers, valleys and vines.
And when you explode with emotions, it must be
because you cannot sit idle
while the world calls you dego, wop.
You are madre, amica, que bella italiana.
To be Italian, you must feel the bows rocking
on the Madonna or Lafayette crossing the Atlantic,
inhale the smoke of hot steel or steam off rising dough,
put in years of work in the garden and kitchen,
to keep pure the ways of the olive-skinned.
You slurp calamari with the same delight
that ‘mericanos slurp spaghetti
and know that someday
your two eye brows will become one,
not from hair, but near the creases on your temple
where your determination
has met the world head on.
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Wisdom at the Age of 10
I watch him as we skip shells on the beach, walking in silence,
obeying the wish of the waves, in their infinite wisdom,
shhhhing us as they lap upon the shore.
He opens car doors for me now, and gates for the beachcomber.
He uses please and thank you
when ordering the homemade linguini
and Caesar salad.
I was a good mom, once. I did something right.
He treasures a cracked lightening whelk
and sobs briefly when a tiny sand dollar is crushed
between his slender fingers. He marvels at three dolphins -
everything good in our life comes in threes –
he fears the animals will lose their way or be caught
in the propeller of the Midnite Son.
“Mom this is the best beach vacation I ever had.”
In truth, it’s his first, of many perhaps.
The last in which he’ll allow me to see him
clutch Mickey and his new stuffed friend Moe.
He digests sports over pancakes and whipped cream.
I gulp coffee while savoring this time.
“Bye mom, off to the pool.”
“Hey mom, let me work the key.”
His high – gelato, three night’s in a row.
My high – I was good mom, once, still am.
Later, he gives a smile, and a thumbs up,
coaxing me to shop for shoes
as if he understands, after six years of raising him alone,
it is my turn now
to let him lead his life,
let me live mine.
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She Said Yes
He digs out a box
from his black faded jeans
while the fire crackles from behind.
She catches the light
of a spark that flies behind the grate
and in an instant she sees another glint,
in his blue eyes that shine like neon
as if he never sleeps.
He pushes aside the crock of soup
and the House wine, which is
coursing through his veins and hers -
its pace fueled by the fate of the fire.
The host moves plates of curried greens
to make room for blackened catfish
then the intruder scurries away.
From their discussion of children
he segues into a marriage proposal -
but the host breathlessly interrupts,
begs them to share in the glorious full moon,
the first before spring, the last to end winter.
When talk returns to marriage,
they agree pools of blessings
have freely formed, encircled the couple
after a long draught.
Water spews forth, like hot springs,
a balm for their former aches.
They depart from dinner,
she is still feeling the flames
from the night’s fire
as they enveloped the logs
and relit her core.
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* Winner of 2007 GWCL Poetry Contest
Oregon Morning
It’s an Oregon morning,
though only 6 o’clock in Ohio.
The oily coffee aroma drifts past,
rouses no one else but me from slumber,
beckons me back to Oregon.
The air is full of cloudbursts
carrying the sea across
three time zones.
Carried too the memories.
In the mist, I mistake my sweet bay magnolia -
a shy debutante in the landscaping mix -
for the rhododendrons –
so lush, and boastful in their color.
I confuse my sopping wet cedar deck
with the wild woods of the West.
The lingering scent of
last night’s ginger chicken
seared on alder planks
I take for a campfire
that once held songs of the sea.
Even my son, born in Oregon
and raised in the coastal faith,
will occasionally stand
on our Midwestern cement,
turn to me for kisses so that
no one else can see,
and whisper,
It’s an Oregon morning.
Playfully he will say goodbye.
The accordion door to the bus will close.
He will be safe on his padded bench.
And when I turn my back on the bus,
the Oregon morning is gone.
5/23/06
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