The Literary Review
The Poet
I saw a man in the park today
he was tall and thin like a candle
his tongue a wick on fire
he lifted his hand as he spoke
moved it with each word
like a maestro’s baton at the podium
he was swingin’ man
like the shouting children in the playground
pumping upward toward the sky
like mr cummings
with his word leaves
swaying down the page
when someone asked
what does it mean
and then someone said
he’s saying the head is like a walnut
to be cracked open
so we can see the dense, sweet nuttiness inside
and someone cooed
he’s soooo wonderful
his eyes are two wide-open mirrors
someone, who was crying, said
I am so very happy
now that I can feel my sadness
and someone said, be careful, he can see inside
next thing you know
he’ll be hanging his heart in our shop windows
but the crowd stayed
swallowing his words
to some like sugar, to some like wine
to others
like a stone
too big for their throats
until the poet took pity on them
and plucked birds from the clouds
stringing them together to make a kite
then, grabbing hold of the tail
he described the wind with such admiration
it could not help but appear and carry him away
- Victoria Twomey
The Gardener’s Wife
I was with your son
after you died
we dug up that little weeping cherry tree
from your yard
just before your house
was sold to strangers
on the drive home, I remembered
the day you took me aside
told me you no longer worried about your son
that you knew he was in good hands with me
which seemed only a kindly comment
not knowing
you were feeling death’s fingers
on the back of your neck
at the right time
he planted your tree with great tenderness
worrying when it suffered a setback
from the transplantation
but it is blooming well now
and responding nicely to his loving care
it grows in front of the morning glories
that weave in and out of the weathered fence
a solid old oak
spreads its branches above for shelter
I watch him care for that delicate tree
and see how much better it is
for him to breathe in the sweet scent
of cherry blossoms
instead of visiting
the pale shadow of your grave
he finds some comfort
in loving what you loved
in not having to say goodbye
to all of you
some days I feel your presence
and believe you are aware of our little house
the cats, the yard
the weeping cherry tree
and hope you find me to be a good wife
to the gardener you left behind
- Victoria Twomey
Sticky Old Drawer
memory
sometimes hard to open
like a sticky old wooden drawer
holding a few dry petals
a few slippery hours
delicate as a beige slip
your father’s hat
the aroma of aftershave
the shoes he wore when he left for good
and even though you’d swear you don’t care
that card from your mother
where she was able to be kind
sometimes all that remains
is a sentence, a word
a letter, a comma
- Victoria Twomey
Blurry Fluttering
on the shelf
by the window
a picture of you in a place I’ll call heaven
playing piano in a garden
next to it, your aftershave
opened briefly and only on special occasions
and lots of angels left and right,
just in case, though neither of us believe
a small photograph of us when I was two
you are directing my attention to the camera
then, and even now
you are encouraging me to smile
was that you
just now, in the window?
or was it only the blurry fluttering
of peripheral birds?
first, the sound of muffled flight
then, the hollow silence of empty air
- Victoria Twomey
Some Terrific Pig
in third grade
the teacher read Charlotte’s Web to the class
she was snow-white beautiful
sitting in the sunlight by the window
as we gathered around
and listened
I was transported to a magic place
where Charlotte was my mother
and even though I was powerless and unimportant
she thought I was some terrific pig
spiders never got drunk
never broke dishes
never made you afraid
of what they might do next
a pig like Wilbur
needed such a miracle
I watched those pages turn in her princess hands
and one day we came to the end
I wanted her to begin again
to conjure Charlotte and Wilbur, the perfect barn and pasture
and Fern, so she and I could be best friends
together, I knew we could rid the world of injustice
- Victoria Twomey