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Two Poems
Susan Wheeler
Real Labor
Yes but I wanted to keep my cookies separate.
Maggie hoists the pipe on her shoulder
and steps over the ditch.
The gist of it -- o tumbling of bell horns, o
birdhouse brigade -- was the absence of dung.
The queen's imperiousness is getting to him,
at last. Up the tunnel they pass the bird,
dead for now in its hat. It was all grist
for the mill.
I would have come to see you but the kids were
home. On the high ridge, two women steer
the truck into place. Glorious yeast, ink on
the tissue, nail on the dial. Just see if he
comes again.
The Changeful Tidings
Some phrases from now on will be difficult to make:
the root of the problem, or branching out.
As she says this, her eyes follow the line of the hospital
wing across the way, to the roof and the pumping tower.
Tied to this is unlikely bedfellows; then there is
the derivation of Daniel Boone, and
the scalper's lament.
Do not follow these too closely.
A carseat has been provided, with a baby, and when you
pick her up there will be several
palpitations. Here there is no division: you
will feel them as though
a pulse had willed.
Bargain with the body. Walk into the room with the scrolls
and be followed by damage,
expect this.
Out on the highway, car lights will pass evenings
in long and purposeful streams.
Nothing will resemble your past.
lingo 4
 Books in print by Susan Wheeler
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