When I say, Look,
the fallen horse on the street
swishes her tail
and releases a great loose fart.
When I look I see the ponies—
minutes new twins.
And the twins are us—
Karen and I—
not the twins we raised,
but the two, tired and wet
that are us, in the back end
of the station wagon being born,
where the motherhorse just gave birth.
Slick wet still in our mother's soothing smooth skin.
Our mother who brought us here
thumps her tail,
a happy dog.

Jim Bodeen
7 July 2010
Nebraska City, Nebraska


Our old Victorian house
built by the Great Northern Railroad
across the street
from the Lutheran Church
didn't give any ground,
matching God's place
dormer for dormer, height and roofline,
counterpoint to parallel mission.
God calls, but he doesn't call
everyone, the pastor said.
This North Dakota Lutheran Church
gave me to God saying this to me,
a boy listening.
You'll know if he calls, the pastor said.
I could hear my father's cries
from our fenced yard,
his blood cold and blue,
feet soaking in water,
iced from North Dakota winter.
My mother cried too, helpless,
I don't know what to do, Wayne.
What can I do?
I was the boy, and I heard.
Behind our house, a barn,
and in summer, Indian Tobacco,
and a peace pipe from a souvenir store.
A marked boy, chosen by no man.

Jim Bodeen
5 July 2010
Little America, Wyoming

1 comment:

  1. I love the horse image heading west from the west.
    no trojan horse that one. kjm