Ars Poetica:  The Fan Letter

Somewhere in the suburbs

of Minneapolis, a girl

keeps my books

beside her bed.

                             Each night,

before she shuts off her light

and closes her eyes,

she reads a poem.

She’s fifteen, blonde, blue-

eyed, the kind of girl

I was too afraid

to talk to in high school.

She sent me a photograph of her-

self in a letter.

She doesn’t know

just how beautiful she is.

It’s winter in Minneapolis. Danger lurks

in shadows—as it does everywhere,

especially around beautiful young girls—

like a starving dog.

I’d like to think for a few minutes

each night, she’s safe

and warm, at home, holding

my poems in her delicate hands.

Tulips

Tulips sway on their slender stems in our garden.

Instead of blossoms, I see small colorful cups

like something delicate we’d share

a drink out of after waking early

in the morning or in the evening

before bed.  I hear their name

as separate words—two lips—

the way I watch your mouth

separate into a smile

and form the silence between words

each time I plant a kiss.

Round

              Once, as a boy—walking

            down the sidewalk

           between my house and a friend’s

          like I did often

        on clear summer nights,

       thinking about girls

      or some other mystery,

     no one else walking

    within my sight,

   no cars driving by—

  I spread my arms wide

 as if to embrace

my happiness, my total freedom.

Tipping my head back

 to laugh at myself, fool

  of my own kingdom,

   I looked up

    past the streetlights

     to the stars,

      and I swear

       I saw the sky

        curve around the Earth.

         I sensed the infinite

          roundness of all things, circle

           of the universe, of the planet,

            of my own insignificant life.

The Lifeguard

Late summer evenings in Brockway, Pennsylvania can be cool,

So the lifeguard at the outdoor community swimming pool

Wears an Old Navy sweatshirt and nylon warm-up pants.

It’s nearly time to close.  A mother wades with her newborn

Into the shallow end.  Her two-year-old stands poolside,

Calling—mom, mom, mom—for her attention.

His pleadings ignored, he turns away, then

Stumbles into twelve feet of water.

Still, his mother doesn’t hear.

The lifeguard dives in, fully clothed, and saves him.

His mother saunters over and drags the sputtering boy

By the ear to the parking lot.  Her yelling shuts off the pool’s spotlights.

If she hit him in the parking lot or later at home

No one will ever know.  How the lifeguard changed the future—

The boy’s, the mother’s, countless others’, mine, yours, her own—

No one will ever know.

The mother never thanked the lifeguard

For saving her son.  The darkened pool’s still and silent water will have to do.

Saint Elmo’s Fire

Saint Elmo has come back

as a cat,

                 the fire

of disinterest burning

along his black fur.

Only two days

in West Lafayette, Indiana,

and he’s coming and going

into the backyard grass

from the bathroom window.

Nights I borrow his bed,

he leaps from shadows

onto my chest, a fur-covered heart attack,

and slams his head into mine

until I turn back the covers and share.

Last night, he held a cicada

in his paws, keeping it away

from me

                 and flipping its wings

as if they were the translucent pages

of a book he’s already read.

Antonio Vallone is an associate professor of English at Penn State DuBois.  He teaches in National University’s online MFA program. Editor of Pennsylvania English and publisher of MAMMOTH books, his own books are Golden Carp, The Blackbird’s Applause, Grass Saxophones, and Chinese Bats. Forthcoming are American Zen and Blackberry Alleys: Collected Poems.