| Thrift It leaned too far and the tin roof was mostly gone to rust, good for picture taking, nothing practical -- the barn my grandfather's father built in 1877 with the Schaffer boys and a team of mules. Had been a fine piece of work in its day, hammered up with the black iron nails he forged himself, clear lodgepole pine, logged and hand-milled right here on the ranch. It leaned so far last summer we pulled it down, two hours of 'dozer work -- would've taken less if we hadn't stood around admiring everything: the buck rake and one-horse bailing machine, long handled hay forks still stacked against the wall, hand forge and anvil, the big round steel saw blade, rusted out like everything else. I sorted the best planks, the ones where the saw-whip was all silver-edged and swirled across the grain. Even Montana winters don't eat timber like that. Dad set some boards aside for fence mending; I stashed the leftovers in the garage rafters -- forgot about them till the roof sagged last winter. That's when we had our family talk about what to do with the barn wood. We decided to make coffins -- one for each member of the family. No sense waiting till the last minute. Mom took our measurements, my son Harry made up a jig and ripped out the lumber on the table saw. Naturally, Dad wanted a classic shape, no squared-off casket nonsense. And quality hardware. Snow was heavy most of the winter. Soon as the ground thawed I stacked the four coffins in the back of the tractor shed -- unassembled, parts numbered. But Dad keeps asking, Who's going to put that last box together? I guess the Schaffers will give us a hand -- if there's any of them left by then. forthcoming: Poetry Southeast, 2007 Waiting for Death in the Billard Room Tea stains, cat hair, dusty Persian carpets; all the drapery is molting. The rasp of her breathing fills the house. I hold Kleenex over my nose to filter the Vicks-flavored air. Grandmother paces, propped at each arm by her sons; she counts as she walks. Each step a misery. The mantle clock grinds out three a.m. and I wonder how long our vigil will last, ask myself why I'm here after all these years. Duty? Curiosity? ... Money? In-laws I've never met before sit on walnut chairs and eye me with suspicion. I finger the lip of a Chinese vase, toe the rug that wants to unravel. My back aches as I move near the ticking radiator in the billiard room, lie flat on the floor, inhale the musk of fatigue. I haven't washed for three days. The twin aunts in the parlor fold and unfold their hands, exchange dry whispers. Their postures reveal their identical thoughts: maybe tonight, surely tomorrow ... It's my turn to walk at her side. I study my grandmother's powdered face, coifed hair, and reflect on her determination to die on her feet, dressed for the theater, attended by all the kin she could bribe. Punished for Painting the Dog Blue Fusty cobwebs, damp moldering mops and rags; I've grown used to the cellar. The gas furnace glows like a mean dragon's mouth. At first I was scared, till the squeaks of the mice grew familiar. I listen because they know the way outside. I don't miss the light much now. My eyes have grown so pale dreams leak out through the centers and twirl in the dark. The old granite laundry sink drips like a water clock. When I get out of here, I'll buy a new bike. And chocolate mint ice cream. I won't share with anyone, especially you Mommy. |
| Billie Dee: Painting the Dog Selected Narrative Poems |
| Punishment for painting the dog blue, fashion wear for the well-heeled family vigil, how to build your own coffin ... and more. California poet BILLIE DEE writes with a unique epi-suburban perspective on life in the American landscape. Order her chapbook now. Five bucks. |
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| BILLIE DEE: PAINTING THE DOG Fashion wear for the well-heeled vigil, how to build your own coffin ... and more. California poet BILLIE DEE writes with a unique epi-suburban perspective on life in the American landscape. Order her chapbook now. |
| $5 |