The parlor stands for all of life, even for those things that most resemble death, because Maud occupies her favorite chair, knitting a sweater for no one to wear, out of the necessity to busy the hands, relieve the mind of its terrible duties, retell her story in stitch after stitch so the end result is something warm and lovely.
A crucifix on the wall, a husband behind glass, bestow in silver-plate and photograph the blessings that remain to her, from her thick mop of white hair, to wrinkled but active fingers, all the way down to the knitting needles, the basket of wool skeins.
Jesus is nailed and hurting. The man in uniform is off to war, off to heaven. She joins them in pain with a bend to her spine, a much-broken heart.
But there’s still this sheer blood-red dreaminess to her shapeless eyes And her breath is like a breeze continually rousing her aged loveliness. Yes, it’s more of a winter wind these days. But the chill can never settle. And she cannot quite settle on the chill.
About the Author: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and Failbetter.
The deluge of nighttime dog barks Pauses for the after storm gutter drip. There was a game, he says, can’t Remember if it was 47 or 8, but we had A two run lead in the bottom of the ninth. Crickets like a crowd roar and the faint Leaving of a train across the river gorge. You got a light. Thanks. Well they got The bases loaded, drunk as they say. The old man’s profile, a Hemingway Hillbilly with bifocals in porch light. And coach, he hollers for me to get in there To pitch to this Babe Ruth no neck left hander. A bawling cow somewhere, the Judge’s braying Donkeys, hungry in their dark pasture. So I say a little prayer ‘cause I believed back then, Hid the ball in my glove behind my back. A neighbor’s old pickup truck inching Through the front yard of his trailer. I throw it hard and outside at the knees. He swings and misses. Lights was so bad. An owl in the maple top, sounding out a Whole summer of loneliness. When he struck at the third bad pitch, that was The game, but then he come after me with his bat. A Hmong woman across the field, singing by the Lanterns in her vegetable garden. Our first baseman, Rosenbluth, stopped Him out between the bases. The hiss of traffic on the wet road, River like a belly against the old dam. We piled on him, beat the shit out of him Before his teammates got out there, must have Been 48, same year I met your mother.
About the Author: A past winner of the Jim Harrison Award for contributions to baseball literature, Tim Peeler has also twice been a Casey Award Finalist (baseball book of the year) and a finalist for the SIBA Award. He lives with his wife, Penny in Hickory, North Carolina, where he directs the academic assistance programs at Catawba Valley Community College. He has published close to a thousand poems, stories, essays, and reviews in magazines, journals, and anthologies and has written sixteen books and three chapbooks. He has five books in the permanent collection at the Baseball Hall of Fame Library in Cooperstown, NY. His recent books include Rough Beast, an Appalachian verse novel about a southern gangster named Larry Ledbetter, Henry River: An American Ruin, poems about an abandoned mill town and film site for The Hunger Games, and Wild in the Strike Zone: Baseball Poems, his third volume of baseball-related poems.