Poetry
by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
The Alligator Handler
The alligator
handler is grappling, counting the scales on the galloper
under him, when he first hears it. He clamps down
harder on the colossal mouth, trying to decide—is
it coming from under him or is it air escaping from
an eighteen-wheeler’s tires, an FM breeze off the
freeway, brakes? All around the air syncopates, rhythmic,
harmonic, with just a touch of do-wo, urging, “Loosen
up. Enjoy the ride.” He catches the beat; bobs his
head to saucy, saurian rock n’ roll.
When this gator still had an egg tooth,
every Gold Coast kid kept a hatchling in a fish tank
on the painted bedroom dresser. Hunkered next to the
tube radio, tiny scales decorated with, Souvenir
of Florida! Florida Gator!, they outgrew their
aquariums hormoned by the Big Bopper, chords covering
them like paint. Set free later, the half-grown ‘gators
were veneered with R & B. On any post-fifties
day, in burrows and holes across the swamp the Alligator
Show modulates—belly crawlers and high walkers harmonizing
in a wild, wailed melody. Sibilance circles every
new-hatched pod. White cranes and pelicans tick over
into their own sha na na. Every crusty body croons.
No matter if he ever figures it out.
No matter how the big bull, ‘Gold Coast Champ,’ flaking
off his scales, Elvis in his heart, tempts him. The
handler, listening hard for Slim Harpo, is hanging
up his leather gloves. Now he longs only to relax
in silt up to his tattoos, to rumble the be bop, hiss
the shoop shoop, tune his swampy soul
until a choir reaches up & pulls him in.
Driving Toward Utopia, Texas
After Robert Bly
I
Sunset on State Line; never-dark I 30; East Texas.
Outside Atlanta on SR 59, the sun abandons the asphalt.
Bar-b-que shacks exhale from the roadside
Wooden girls show their painted panties to the drive-bys
In towns with less than 500 people I am a motorway
potentate
To each turkey sheltering in her triangular tin house.
II
This Ford F-150 is a cruise ship, a powerboat
Floats like a fat Sheriff in ditch water politics,
On the road from Marshall to Carthage.
Emptiness rides up beside me,
from the dark soybean rows,
Outvoted by the cicadas’ chirr.
III.
Near Lufkin, suddenly Sam Rayburn Reservoir,
The water filibustering, moon struck.
In one-story farmhouses you’re close to the dirt;
Yard lights glow for the moths’ support.
When I get to Black Bayou, a caucus of stars.
Cows low by the water, rubbing their polls on the
fence.
After
for n.s.
She plants her
bulbs
by the moon
as if she had faith
in spring.
Sorts pictures:
him in a fedora, playing
banjo, pastes them
onto black paper,
soft as a felt hat.
The neighbors bring
casseroles; she eats
politely, continues
losing her waistline,
forgetting how
he Travis picked,
and how
he used a black
Kyser capo.
In dreams, her hands
open, close, tighten
on the bicycle brake.
She thumbs the Torah,
the Tao, as if
he were following along
his hand resting
on her waist.
But she’s done
considering
how quick it was,
his bike on the asphalt,
then nothing
but the uninterrupted moon,
idling across town.
Marrying the Weight Lifter’s
Daughter
Day after day
you court her. You open doors she could easily break
down. You carry her suitcases although they are full
of rocks. You bring her bouquets of sinkers and hand
weights. She seems not to notice; she embodies her
father’s broad silence. You toil along hoisting boxes
of andirons and high school annuals. You grunt and
heave. Her love is the tonnage you struggle to elevate.
After months of heavy lifting, she consents.
At your wedding, the ushers wear formal trunks; each
bridesmaid can bench press 200 pounds. In the honeymoon
suite, your bride demonstrates what she has desired
all along. She enters the room wearing only her tattoos
and gazes tenderly down at you lying on the bed very
still. She bends over, grabs your ankles with one
hand and places the other gently around your neck,
then clean jerks you over her head.
