April 16, 2014

Russell Rowland

SINGLE DADS OF DAUGHTERS

If you join our fraternity, in time
you too will have to pick your daughter up
after dance class. You’ll step with diffidence
into so feminine an environment,
filled with leotards, book bags, and moms.
At sight of you, some girl will giggle, “Woops!”
and run from the room, while you find the floor
interesting.
                    You will not postpone forever
your first trip (not your last) to the drug store
for menstruation-related products—
from which trauma you return to be informed
you must exchange them for the kind with wings.
Back you go swearing, in a cloud of smoke:
Let them fly to us, like homing pigeons,
if they have wings!
                              Can your daughter attend
the all-night cast party at a stranger’s house,
on the other side of town? It is your call,
there’s no spouse to blame the decision on.

Your penance is to give her away to one
who will make familiar-sounding promises—
and keep them better than you did.

from Rattle #41, Fall 2013
Tribute to Single Parent Poets

__________

Russell Rowland: “A middle-aged poet will have gathered a fair amount of moss on the northern side of his consciousness. Divorce, which both giveth and taketh away, made of me a single parent with physical custody, a better man, and a poet with some lonesome valleys to write about. I had to walk them for myself, but now I can write about them for you, and you, and you.”

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May 7, 2010

Russell Rowland

NO MAIL TODAY

Just now I bowed to the miniature window
of my Post Office box, and this voyeur

saw an empty corridor with fluorescent
lighted space beyond. Fragmentarily

glimpsed arms and hands put wonderful
things into other boxes. I have come

up empty, ever since a fellow counselor
at a long-past camp left her note for me:

“Can we talk?” I had not wanted to talk,
just grope in her shirt like a blind puppy

after milk. She preferred a relationship:
girls always complicated everything.

Older, I bent into pretzels of contrition,
using even the Book of Common prayer.

Silence can tell you all you need to know.
That empty corridor goes to infinity,

like two mirrors facing. We can’t talk.
Wounds aren’t healed by the aggressor

who inflicted them, and the aggressor
is the last to be made healthy, if at all.

The Pope sends back to Tannhaüser
his staff in bloom; however, mail is slow.

from Rattle #22, Winter 2004

__________

Russell Rowland: “One of J.D. Salinger’s characters, Seymour Glass, wrote a poem about a little girl, a fellow passenger on a commercial flight, who turned the head of the doll she held so that it was looking at him. Like Seymour, I wish to write about those moments of connectedness in which our true humanity (and divinity) resides, even in barbarous times.”

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