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Dan Chelotti
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Grieving in the Modern World
When someone died In ancient times, say, In a battle, or from A thorn and the lack Of penicillin, the women Were said to let their hair Down. Their grief freed Them. Over time, this Custom was lost, and is Now represented by Over-edited movie Scenes where a woman Cuts her own hair In a fluorescent bathroom. The cut comes out uneven But cute, striving after Ingrid Bergman in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Woodie Guthrie also spent A lot of time striving After Ingrid Bergman. He kept a broken watch In his pocket to symbolize How time stopped when He saw her. Woodie Guthrie Never got to use that line – But he did, for a time, Save the world. It would Seem fitting to let my Hair down to show how sad This makes me feel, But the microwave is Almost finished heating My dinner, and the Jim Lehrer News hour is about to begin.
One of These Days
If only the moon Would part the clouds I could see him better: The melon vender, Bored, unable to leave His stand. I buy a melon. I don’t. It’s different Every time. I move My hand in a room So saturated with light My shadow is nothing More than the sound Of the lathe next door. I let go. I have to. He hasn’t been there For ten years, and for that He was only there one Night. I hardly even Noticed him. Why Do I remember him? Why do I fantasize About buying or not Buying a melon from him? Why do I remember The cobweb outside Sears and Roebuck On an early winter Day in 1987 when I am standing In a supermarket Looking at the fat Content on a bag of chips For God’s sake Where do the things That matter go? He hands me a melon And doesn’t answer, He just smiles And refuses to take my money.
Ode to Hephaestus
Craving a smoke In the half-assembled World, I rely on Hephaestus. When I fake a limp Coming out of a handicapped Bathroom stall, I think Of Hephaestus. When I see an injured crow, When I check the tire pressure, When I hold a book Over the recycling bin Debating whether I’ll ever Read it again. I put it back. Not because I will Or won’t read it, Because of Hephaestus, Of the way he shifts His weight as he bears Down on the white hot metal. I see his eyes Just above the weld: How he might as well Be staring at a cold cup of coffee, And feel better About not smoking, About circuitously walking Toward an injured crow With a tire iron I’ve dubbed Mercy.
Fake It
There is a café In San Luis Obisbo I’ve never been to, But I say I have And no one questions me. On the wide scale Of lies I tell daily, This one barely registers. Pretending to be Catholic, On the other hand, Registers. I never say it Out loud, I just nod Quietly. To quietly nod One’s head is the most Fierce kind of lie. You believe in it The same way you believe In the stink of a rotting Pig’s knuckle in the closet Under the stairs – The same way I artfully avoid looking At the holes I punch In the walls, or artfully Tie silk ribbons to the trees. I masterfully arrange My books in the boxes So if anyone sees me, They will see how intelligent I am. I stare down The long highway Of mice and fake it: Because it is clever: Because it keeps the floor clean.
Fathering
Don’t bother To notice the light That makes you plunge Your hand in the sand. You might find A word you don’t want To find. It will find you Eventually, like I found You eventually, But it was too late In the evening, You had to get home, Tend to the roast And your table Of contents. You left me standing Under a lamp post. I am always standing Under a lamp post, Even when I am not. I use this construction As binary stars Use gravity. I use this miniature Compass to find The northmost fountain, The one by which I spend my nights Waiting, the one You told me to wait by. Sometimes when the moon Finds its way through The branches I find a way Back to the street You paved. You nod, whisper Get on home with yourself. Good to see you. Say hello to the rest Of the ghosts. Say hello to the rest Of the ghosts.
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Dan Chelotti’s poems have appeared in Boston Review, Tarpaulin Sky, Free Verse, and in the anthology, State of the Union: 50 Political Poems. A chapbook, The Eights, was published by the Poetry Society of America. He lives in Connecticut, and teaches writing at Elms College.
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