A Poem On A Monday

I've been on a kick lately--enjoying the photography of Noel Kerns. I am drawn to his photos of ghost towns, of industrial decay. There is something alluring and romantic about seeing constructions that had once been lived and loved and worked in. A representation of toil and of what it takes to sustain our physical lives, and once they have been used up or something else comes along, it's left abandoned. Small Iowa towns are dying (factory farms and the promise of larger towns and cities have resulted in dwindling populations) and I imagine some day tourists will come visit these areas for the first time. The reason--to see the bones of a certain slice of history. Growing up, I had a friend who lived in the country and near her house was an abandoned trailer. And by abandoned I mean it was as if the inhabitants had just vanished, leaving all the accessories of their lives--clothing, food, containers, books, furniture--behind. We used to think it was some brave thing to go wandering around that trailer, to peek in the windows and even tiptoe through the rooms. I'm not sure why we felt the need to tiptoe around in there, a place unlived in for years, but it seemed like the honorable thing to do in the wake of all those things that had belonged to someone. So here's a poem about that place (which was previously published in White Pelican Review), but first here's the link to Noel Kern's website...http://www.noelkernsphotography.com/

Abandoned Trailer

An uncapped wine cooler,

three sips gone, near the kitchen sink

and dirty dishes, frying pan

on the stove for some ghost

with a hunger. Garbage bags full

on the floor. Raccoon droppings

in overturned dresser drawers.

Women’s dresses, bright make-up

in the bathroom, bobby pins, some

combs. There’s a crow’s nest

by the bed. Broken windows,

target practice holes. Sofa,

lonely chairs.

When they left, they took only

a car and their skin. What release

that must have been.

Front door slapping shut and they

looked back once at home

choked in dust from their tires

feeding open road.

No one remembers them. 

For years I’d wander through their

rooms like a wind and wondered

what air it takes to abandon.

There’s a strong bone behind

hands that quit. A raw heart to change

when so few of us could.

They’re mocking us in their deserting,

or else teaching. All these bits

are nothing. They saw this and ran

through dusty fields to know the sky

under their arms, at their back

like an oath, loose as gravel.

Ripe feet shooting sparks

like waterfalls, the certain miles.

Casey Lord