by C. J. Stevens
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Recent poems by C. J. Stevens
Thinking of my father
House of Hang-ups
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Great-uncle Crowell slapped my face
when my marble of spittle rolled down his vest:
I was perched on the sweet-apple bough
of my mother's knee; Crowell was hooked
like a thorn to a cushion of his settee
that stood in the shade of this apple tree.
When one is five, one is srprised
that grown-ups are capable of storms -
the mountainous thunder of Crowell's voice,
and lightning splintering the knotted
pupils of my mother's eyes.
my uncle, who had no place to go,
took cot and bowl and a soiled vest
and fled. He went to the barn to live.
"The final insult," my mother said.
But I thought of the drooling cows; thought
of the wind slapping the faceless trees.
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|Reviewed by Michelle Mills
|I'm speechless..."When one is five, one is surprised to find that grownups are capable of storms". Superb. Michelle|
|Reviewed by Dawn Richerson
|powerful, love the child's perspective ... what an ending.|
|Reviewed by Elaine Carey
|This is an amazing write, capturing the feelings of the child, the sensory experience, and the idiosyncrasis of the elders.|