fence
a line of lovers, wooden
like rotting posts
each more weathered
and more hollow
than the previous
until the last one
completely broken
neglecting
what it was meant
to hold
— © Rick Baldwin
Jack o’Lantern
When she carved the pumpkin,
her hand sunk deep into its flesh
and, as she scooped the insides,
she thought of the murder–
how the face went soft,
yet wide-eyed, open-mouthed,
stringy seeds spilling
onto her dress.
She twisted the knife in,
his body thrusting forward,
not expecting the blow
or that she would fight back.
Now only a pile of damp pulp
on the old, wooden floor
remained to be cleared
before the celebration.
Her steady hand putting
flame to the candle
and placing the toothy head
before the house
as a beacon to those who
would come knocking
that night.
— © Rick Baldwin
Jackson, 1962
Murder at midnight.
Ruby light like a sheet
over the Oldsmobile’s
steel green skin.
Undercover crickets
shrill in a foggy field,
their screams a jagged static
against the black gloaming;
tinnitus in the night ear.
Haggard men,
hoarding hate like rare coins,
pause for gasoline—
greasy hands rub hollow eyes—
then churn up dust,
bald tires grind the earth
desperate to bury the past.
Tomorrow at the bank,
the agency, the classroom,
the factory, the church
and the precinct
they will call
Jesus a friend.
— © Rick Baldwin
Choices
You never asked to give,
nor I to take.
These, our branded destinies—
seared into us
before our first breath.
The advantage was mine:
wrapped in silken, milky skin,
a blur of glowing world,
my everything.
By your crib,
they planted a dagger—
your fate fixed
to the surgeon’s edge,
never your own.
My cries were silenced
by the comfort of a nipple;
yours, by the cold pierce
of a syringe,
a mother of steel
leaving you naked to the world.
Now, grown men,
I take the wheel,
driving to your cell—
your home.
The chain tightens,
its land around your neck.
— © Rick Baldwin
Sandal Dust
You are the fourth nail
dull, crooked and corroded
piercing the watery heart
pushing through the spine
splintering the wood
injecting the poison like
a Golgotha adder
dancing on the stone and
kicking the crown
Your rituals are performed in
robes dragging the ground
The work of your hands betray
you like a whore bride
The children starve while
you eat the lamb
and lie with the calf
I never knew you.
— © Rick Baldwin
The Pursuit of Warmth
He shoved the
iron poker deep
into the coals,
like a man forcing
his words into
a conversation he
barely understands—
she said he always did—
roughshod, without thought.
He poked and cracked coals,
chunks splitting and rolling
like Minnesota Fats at
a volcanic billiards table.
She set the last cigarette
on freshly painted lips,
lit it with 24 years of
simmering resentment.
Her fingers scraped
the final bite of honey biscuit
breakfast from the saucer,
lifting it to her tongue.
“There’s chicken in the
fridge from last night.
I’ll be late again.”
Her purse strap tightened
around her hand like a
cable car passenger
pulling the emergency cord
a stop too late.
“Pull. Pull hard,”
she told herself.
Stale smoke and country ham
stained the air. When he shut
his eyes, he imagined
his grandmother’s kitchen
smelling the same way
had she lived past twenty-nine.
“Too damn early,”
he muttered.
Fireworks splashed the air
as the poker smashed against
a crackling stump.
The front door slammed;
his spit sizzled
where it struck the ash.
•••