Father's Day 06/20/10

She rolls the nicotine lozenge around
in her mouth, staving off a cigarette.
She stares through half open shutters, tries
to visualize the ninety-eight degree
heat, too hot to walk the dogs
too hot to repot the phlox, the dirty
copper fountain has lost its splash, water sliding across the leaves in subdued murmurs.
The fish lies at the bottom of his bowl
bored by the stillness of her bedroom.
Trying to squeeze good words from her brain
she sips cold coffee from a stained mug
stares at the stack of journals on her desk,
her bra dangling from the arm of the chair
where she flung it last night, a basket of books
the photo of her father in Navy dress.
The drone of a lawn tractor fills her nose with
perfumed memories of his push mower
throwing blades of grass pasting themselves on
his trousers as he leans into his toil
a green cloud of sweetness stirring the air.

Revised January 6, 2011
© cj Schlottman

Frozen Heat - © Claudia Schlottman

05/19/10

Frozen Heat

I stumble, take a half step back 

fly down a dark shaft legs thrown up 

in a perfect vee. 

Birkenstocks scraping the roof of 

the tunnel fly off and pound my 

face. Dress blown over my head, my 

back heats and blisters with friction. 

I land hard in a frigid pool. 

Tears breach eyelids squeezed against 

the darkness, drain down my face in

rivulets of scorching sleet.

My mouth flies open and from it 

howls and screeches of poisonous

pain hurtle forth as from the throat 

of a wounded dog.  I peek out 

to see only darkness, no hint 

of light glowing in the distance. 

I hobble to my feet, groping

in the inky space for warmth.  

My feet burn scarlet with cold 

my teeth clack, arms break into a 

hot rash, then freeze.  I stagger, flee

the cold, falter forward seeking 

the warmth you stole in the fever

of your dying.                    

Sarah at 13 -

Written 1998     © Claudia Schlottman Transcribed July 4, 2002

Sarah at Thirteen

She stands, hip cocked, in a

tank top--cotton knit, striped in

muted hues of blue, brown, green.

Hints of breasts push

against the fabric.

Chill bumps stand on slender

arms.  Thumbs hooked on belt loops

of jeans that sag over

boyish hips, she looks straight

ahead, shifts her weight.

Necklaces - tiny beads

strung together by a 

friend - gleam in the March sun.

[A dog tag (Old Navy)

hangs around her neck.]

Adidas--the perfect

pair--peek from beneath the puddled demin of her

[too-long] jeans.  She tosses

her hair--blonde, chin length, no

bangs.  Blue eyes flash beneath

dark brows, startling slashes

against her fair skin.

She turns, delivers a wide, unselfconscious

preorthodontic smile.

Messages from Mama - © 1998 - Claudia Schlottman

Messages from Mama

An unsettled goose, the phone clangs.

The machine dutifully answers

each call, records each message.  Slurred

speech, garbled words slide into the 

quiet air, crowding, clouding it.

Fuddled, my mother claims neglect,

abandonment, alleges pains

belittled, overlooked, ignored,

says she can’t breathe, her heart won’t beat,

feebly searches her addled brain

for clues to where she is and why.

I hear confessions of antics,

scenes to earn attention.  I see

her strip naked, struggle to pull

the mattress from her bed, steer her

wheelchair down the hall, the stump--once

her leg--exposed, waving wildly.

More incomprehensible words

follow.  The air is thick with mum-

blings laced with strident demands:  drugs

for the pain, Kroger toothpaste, a

pen to replace the one they stole.

And I should bring them right away.

Lisa © 2010 Claudia Schlottman

Cowboy boots, red & black & scuffed

                         

swallow spindly legs   chemo-smooth

& pale.     Khaki shorts droop past a 

waist whittled by a tummy tuck

   

the one good thing   she says   to come

of this cancer.   A ripped white tee cascades down 

her ravaged chest   both breasts carved away 

the healthy one   they say   just to be sure.

Gray hairs sprout from a worn

bandana tied in a do-rag over her ears

 & cold-blue eyes tattooed with sooty semi circles 

sink in an ashen face laid waste 

by poisons meant to buy her one 

more spring. 


© cj Schlottman 2010

Linked to Thursday Poetry Rally Week 53      


I nominate Delible at Cat's Blog                                  

Hand and Glove

When you were here you were

the glove & I the hand

safe & balanced & strong.

Then the fever of your

dying melted the glove &

it dripped off the ends

of my fingers, spilling

itself into a pool

of sadness in which I

stood naked, afraid. I

crawled beside you in

our bed, warmed by your

fever, knowing it to be

your last warmth, as your breaths

drew longer, your heart slowed

& stopped.

I held tight to you, listened

hard, desperate for any

hint of life but there was none.

I lay with you, my head

pressed to your still and quiet

chest, feeling a chill fall

over me & wanting to

follow you.

© cj Schlottman  2010

Linked to Gooseberry Garden

The Bell Ringer - ©2010 Claudia Schlottman

I tack into a cold wind across the
Wal Mart parking lot, eyes focused downward.
At the crosswalk, I look up and see her.
The Bell Ringer.
Boots, black and spikey and pointy-toed, white
fuzz spilling out of the tops, tight black jeans
look painted on long legs, shapely yet slender .
Under a black leather jacket a red
turtleneck hugs her swan’s neck, a jaunty
green and white scarf wrapped around it.
Dark red lipstick just matches her sweater.
Breasts, small and high push against the fabric.
“Merry Christmas.” “Thank you.” “God Bless You.”
I look into her cafe au lait face.
She grins, revealing gold caps on two front teeth.
From under a Santa hat pulled over
her ears, golden hoops, the size of bracelets,
dangle, brush her shoulders, twinkle in the
sunlight as she jumps and dances, keeping warm.
She must be six feet tall without the boots.
I think I should drop a dollar in the
red bucket suspended on a black frame
but decide to wait, give on my way out...
Too cold now to dig into my purse.
I shop for dog food, eye drops, beauty cream,
check out, but at the door I realize
I’ve not kept out a dollar for The Bell Ringer.
I scurry past, a rat hiding from light.
Didn’t I put a check for $100.
in another bucket the day before?
I load my purchases into the trunk
start for home, her golden grin shining from
every light pole, stop light, oncoming car.
I brake and turn, speeding back to her post
only to find she has evaporated
vaporized into the cold.
Dark is falling hard and I drive home
at a creep, not understanding just
who it is that I have disappointed.

Waiting for Saint Jude

She hands her son pills

watches him swallow

drugs to scare him sober

moves to the sink parks the glass

resumes peeling, chopping eggs

stares blindly across the marsh

rubs a paper towel

across her face blows her nose.

Snuffles, throat-clearing sounds

spin her around to offer

comfort, toast cooked in a

black skillet dancing with butter.

She sits, smokes coffee untouched

watches for tremors as he

forks food into his mouth

washes it down with juice.

His knees agitate as

he works his heels against

the kitchen floor.

He gags bolts for the sink

vomits, rinses it clean

She digs in her purse for pills

quickly checks the lock on the bar.

Jaw set, she refills

his glass, hands him

another dose of Antabuse.

Outside the dog stretches

in a patch of sunlight.

Marsh hens clack, Redwings caw

clouds drift on a spring breeze.

She recalls a time

when alcohol was

for swimmer’s ear and

egg salad and pan toast

could cure all ills.

© 2010 cj Schlottman

Photographing Clint - ©1999 Claudia Schlottman

Photographing Clint  - 1999 - by Claudia Schlottman  

He leans back, arms outstretched

on the rail, terry robe wrapped

around his long body

cinched with an easy knot,

his silhouette framed by

an almost-dark sky that

hints of a purple 

and orange sunset.

A few degrees atilt,

a wine glass rests between

his thumb and forefinger.

Hot-tub water drips

into Birkenstocks--size 46,

he draws one foot up and

props it on a picket,

breaking the robe, showing

a knee, hinting at his

nakedness beneath.

Seeing the camera,

he cocks his head, silver hair

shining in the porch light,

and looks straight at the lens.

Brown eyes gleam as he breaks

into the smile he saves

for me alone.

The Other Woman ©2010 Claudia Schlottman

I never knew this woman
of steel and guts, this woman
you said would survive no matter what.
I never saw the iron at
her core that was clear to you,
that you believed was the glue
that held her in one piece.

The woman I know is
a pretender a coward
who hid her angst, rallied
the family, sent them to
lie at your side, sit at your feet
until death began slowly
to reveal itself and they
could no longer bear
the sounds of its rattle
in your throat

The woman I know lay
with you all afternoon
awash in tears and lied
to you and said she
could endure it and not to
worry to go ahead and die
if you needed to.

Clinging to your sweater
her head on your shoulder
alone and scared she touched
your cheek, scorched with fever
said good-bye but didn’t mean it.

Fear

Since my brother’s cancer came back

I’ve tasted dirty pennies.

Not a stick of Dentyne - not a

cigarette will stave it off.

Sipping a cold martini from

a hand painted glass I bought to

make me feel better masks it for

only the moment.

Awake at three-thirty, I blot

sweat from my face, brush my teeth

wash down Xanax with water from

a plastic bottle.

The pounding in my chest subsides.

At last I sleep - hair dried in

curly mats against my pillow.

©  2011 cj Schlottman

Yoga

lights dim new age music

spilling softly from speakers in the ceiling

i push the small of my back

into the purple mat

i open my eyes see Belle’s head

suspended over my face

she sniffs my mouth whiskers brush

my nose sniffs again as though

she can smell the rot of grief as i exhale

wretched gloom won’t leave

my head even while stretching

twisting holding proud warrior

or downward facing dog

breathing long breaths counting slowly

to ten with each new posture

segueing seamlessly from pose to pose

even in yoga there is no peace

(he’s dead, you fool, he’s dead)

i sit legs crossed hands folded

between my breasts as though in prayer

chin down i mutter namaste &

wish i could disappear

©  2010 cj Schlottman

Snakes in My Head - © 2010 Claudia Schlottman

I wish i were a reptile    a young snake

so I could   shed my skin by rubbing 

my nose against a rock    separating 

it at my lips     slithering out 

to reveal a more   hardwearing one    

growing and sliding under

rocks  through dark places   unnoticed      

sneaking into houses    scaring 

people inside.

Unbothered by cold   i would hibernate 

through it    &  in warm weather    bask 

in the sun    lay eggs or give live birth  

like boas & cobras & garter snakes 

birthing    a wriggling writhing mass of young 

to begin growing   molting   

becoming more rugged & craggy with 

the passing of each season.

Carnivorous   i would eat whatever 

i could catch    master   and swallow

rats & bugs & fiddler crabs & lizards 

insects & groundhogs & even small dogs.

I’d have    no heart    to break & no conscience 

or    sense of loss    i’d not think of my young  

nor remember their father. 

Thanksgiving Feast ©12/06/09 Claudia Schlottman

Perrier Joet from a hand blown flute
long stemmed fading from green to blue
tastes bitter on my lips & stings my tongue.

Chocolate mousse melts to mud in my mouth
while the hole in the room grows wide
& they pretend it’s Thanksgiving when we
all know it’s the edge of madness.

Cheese straws are sawdust in my throat choking
me, pasting my cheeks to my teeth
my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Will I
ever forgive you for leaving
me to strangle on my grief?