Thursday, June 20, 2024

Joseph Milosch


A Perfect Irish Grave

 

From the upstairs closet of my memory,

I removed a mason jar full of my mom’s

button collection: blues, reds, clear fasteners

from dresses, and some from Dad’s peacoat.

I reflect on these things of little consequence

and their pull on my history. After her death,

I traveled to Michigan and visited the home

of her childhood. Parking in front of the path

leading to an abandoned farm, I balanced

with care the weight of sadness with silence.

 

In the northern part of the yard, the barn

shed its paint in red flakes. Its door hung

lopsided and remained open to strays.

The corn crib slanted away from the silo

and towards the hen house. The years

unhooked the coop’s fencing from bent nails,

and the chicken wire curled like a flag.

To the west is the house with bleached wall

 as cracked as the porch steps. Pausing

on the path to her childhood home,

I stooped and uncovered a portion of the body

belonging to the broken statue of a blue

and white Madonna. Her veiled head poked

from under the root burl of a wayward rose.

 

I knelt, and with my pocketknife, I shaved

the knot away from her head and shoulders.

Loosening the dirt beneath her ribs, I dug

a tunnel to remove her from the earth

and found a glass button buried inside her.

It reminded me of Mom’s collection and

her wish to have an Irish rose planted beside

her headstone. Here, a Burgundy Rose grew over

the burial site of the Virgin’s statue, making it,

as my mother would say, a perfect Irish grave.


 




Leaving the Straights of Dover


The other thing is that the enemy planes were diving down, machine-gunning the boats and everything else. They bombed ships we were trying to get to. You might get halfway and there’s no ship there, because it’s been destroyed.  Comments after the battle of Dunkirk by private Rymer, Cheshire Regiment

 

Taking a sea cruise on The Norwegian Sun,

I watch the clouds cover the moon and turn

the North Sea into the color of ripe olives.

 

When the lights of Dunkirk become visible,

the dead from that battle reveal themselves

as foamy crests riding the waves.

 

Has too much time passed to think about

The Defenders? Does anyone remember

the ME 262s strafing the English boats

like a carpenter hammering coffin nails?

 

Without moonlight, distance is indiscernible,

and the dead rings the bell in the temple

of my ear while the wind blows white caps

away from the north shore of France.

                                                                                    1 AM  07/2023




 


A Chilly and Rainy Afternoon

 

On a chilly and rainy afternoon in late August,

the waves leave a sheen of gasoline,

leaked from outboard engines, all along

the back wall of the boathouse foundation.

 

Floating on their sides, three dead fish drift

inside the shed. One of their eye’s stares

at the beam of the roof and the other,

at the rock and seaweed bottom.

 

Creaking hoist ropes and anchor chains

add to the boredom of the cat. He watches

the fish, pushed by the waves, their heads

bumping the foundation’s wall.

 

About the boy sitting on an overturned

bucket, no problem. As he reads, he becomes

lost in the streets of Paris. Pausing he looks up

at the rain hitting the lake. Then, he turns

the page of his book, The Three Musketeers.

 

Michelle Smith

 “We are the Flowers that Bloom”   We are the flowers that bloom Behind the gate Planted firmly There should be no sorrow At nig...