kELLY R. SAMUELS
On Deadwood and Widows and Wanting
Of the widow’s black lace and gazing through panes,
saying we’d wonder what they’d had to say–
they of the boot and gun and well intentions.
You long for him, yes. As if you know
what he will be like: soft, and not. Masterful, turning you
just so in all the ways you want. Crossing rooms to quash
the lecherous father and then later stroke your back, desiring
nothing of your money, just you. You who cannot seem to leave
when once you were only too ready.
He is a need not unlike your previous addiction, though not dulling
the senses but heightening, quickening the pulse–bees
in the veins, something you only imagined, once.
The hero–you are
searching for the hero of this tale.
Of the widow’s black lace and gazing through panes,
saying we’d wonder what they’d had to say–
they of the boot and gun and well intentions.
You long for him, yes. As if you know
what he will be like: soft, and not. Masterful, turning you
just so in all the ways you want. Crossing rooms to quash
the lecherous father and then later stroke your back, desiring
nothing of your money, just you. You who cannot seem to leave
when once you were only too ready.
He is a need not unlike your previous addiction, though not dulling
the senses but heightening, quickening the pulse–bees
in the veins, something you only imagined, once.
The hero–you are
searching for the hero of this tale.
On Deadwood and Seeing Enemies Where There Are None
Ye of faith, seeing and not. Clutching your Bible, clutching
the post that helps keep structures erect. You speak of seeing
foes where allies stand, waiting to help you home.
The hand on the upper arm, guiding you through the muck
and mud of what are not yet streets. This is of comprehension,
and, too, a tangible sense, like that of the rotting flesh you smell,
thinking it is you, thinking it is your soul–that feathery thing
so many others disbelieve or have put aside for other tasks
or pleasures, like that of the piano’s tune and the cavorting whore.
You speak of fear and of devils and of kindness, that
that would be the shape you would take: upright and good.
And what, then, are we to do–when we trust nothing and no
one, not even ourselves? The ailing and sick, the mad reverend
with limp, questioning: that human condition.
Ye of faith, seeing and not. Clutching your Bible, clutching
the post that helps keep structures erect. You speak of seeing
foes where allies stand, waiting to help you home.
The hand on the upper arm, guiding you through the muck
and mud of what are not yet streets. This is of comprehension,
and, too, a tangible sense, like that of the rotting flesh you smell,
thinking it is you, thinking it is your soul–that feathery thing
so many others disbelieve or have put aside for other tasks
or pleasures, like that of the piano’s tune and the cavorting whore.
You speak of fear and of devils and of kindness, that
that would be the shape you would take: upright and good.
And what, then, are we to do–when we trust nothing and no
one, not even ourselves? The ailing and sick, the mad reverend
with limp, questioning: that human condition.
Kelly R. Samuels lives in the upper Midwest. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net, and has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals including The Carolina Quarterly, Sweet Tree Review, Salt Hill, The Citron Review, and RHINO. She has a chapbook, Words Some of Us Rarely Use, being published in January from Unsolicited Press.