Beulah

Part One of the chapbook I am making

I

She found him resting on the shore of Platte Lake

prodding a dead walleye

with his s'mores stick

Should be a doctor, she said, and smiled

Her teeth and lips painted red

with cherries, and she offered one from her bowl

   but he just kept poking that fish

Kripes-Almighty! she said, Don'tcha know

This is Beulah, she said, Beulah, Michigan

home of the cherry

Ya gotta try one! she said

   so he did

It's gross, he said, You're gross

and he returned to his fish

and he heard her whistle as she walked away

and that was it

But summer ended

and his family packed and went

to their real home in Indiana

and came school and then winter

and by spring, he craved

that tart, sinful, pit-interrupted

pop of violent red

   It wasn't so bad, he thought

and soon summer came again

Lookit! she said

and he saw, tied to fishing line like bait

and hanging from her neck

a turtle's shell, hollow

and turtle-less

she was looking through it

   looking at him

Dad says it's a snapper, but

I think it's magic. Besides, look!

The Storm is coming, she said

and for weeks they played

Gilligan and Mary-Ann 

   First the wind, then the rain, and then the lake- 

   with counterfeit clouds and whitecap thunder

   Are you awake, Prince Theseus? she whisp-

   ered, and together they hoisted white sails.

II

The rain settled, and years drifted like wood

His family bought a house on the other side

of Platte Lake, but still she found him

on the shore, fishing for walleye

Summers are strange with you around, she said

Fudgies like you don't know this town!

   but still she called him Gilligan

   and gave him cherries from her bowl

You're gross, he said, and she laughed

and whistled as she walked away

and that was it

But summer ended, and he went home

first came leaves, and then the snow

and she sent him letters

   Winters are longer without you around.

   The years cannot swim! Without you, they drown.

and then came spring's rain

and summer again

It was there, floating over blameless Platte Lake

she branded him with pursed lips

   she tasted like cherry pie

Gilligan, my first mate, she said

That, the year his dad died

and mom sold the house in Beulah

and they drifted like the years

But he sent letters

   for a while

He worked summers, and he grew older

   and distracted...

   Should be a doctor, she said

but it never happened

and he never wed

or made feet for children's shoes

His days, the mortician prodding dead strangers,

recalling storms and cherry pie

   It could be worse, he thought

It's not so bad

and he drifted

and whistled as he walked away

and that was it

III

Now, broken and weary

He visits Platte Lake to remember

and to fish, so he rests by the shore

alone

But summer ends

and he goes home

   But there! A cherry tree sprouts from the lake.

   Like a ship drowned in the shallow water,

   the spindle mast points to Heaven, with white

   sails, waving, as if to surrender. This

   is Beulah, home of the cherry, he says.

   His heart in a casket, sealed with a kiss

   by the girl from Beulah with cherry lips.

   Where it is, so it seems, falls like the pit.

   There it is, there it was, and that was it.

Reviews

[Mia]

You’re wonderful! Here’s why…very few people can tell interesting stories and even fewer can do so in the form of poetry. It was beautiful to read…like magic happened. I could have read and on and on, I would have read on and on. You’re a magician with words and I’m like a little kid at a party…eyes glued…afraid to miss a moment of magic!

[Emily B]

that voice, again . . . amazing