{"id":1212,"date":"2022-03-20T05:01:03","date_gmt":"2022-03-20T05:01:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alphabetbox.com\/?page_id=1212"},"modified":"2022-04-03T20:10:17","modified_gmt":"2022-04-04T00:10:17","slug":"issue-3-john-davis-2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/alphabetbox.com\/submissions\/issue-3-john-davis-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Issue 3… John Davis"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"This<\/span>Two Poems
\n<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span>by John Davis<\/span><\/span><\/span>
\n<\/span><\/h4>\n


\nStationed in Yorktown<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

To run among the ghosts of soldiers<\/span><\/p>\n

who knelt on deerskins knelt<\/span><\/p>\n

on dirt and struck the air with flintlock<\/span><\/p>\n

muskets begging it to open to admit them<\/span><\/p>\n

as they were, young grunts young as I<\/span><\/p>\n

wanting the war to be done. Here the tunnels<\/span><\/p>\n

of air to run through. Here the smell of smoke.<\/span><\/p>\n

Here the birth of deaths. Legs like mine<\/span><\/p>\n

wore the body. The ballast they carried<\/span><\/p>\n

like mine was the heavy snow of the heart.<\/span><\/p>\n

What didn’t shiver was the hum of home,<\/span><\/p>\n

voices there, wind in night trees, smells<\/span><\/p>\n

of jasmine, squish of toes in clover, branches<\/span><\/p>\n

lit in late night. Who doesn’t want to return<\/span><\/p>\n

to the song they were born in. Keep running<\/span><\/p>\n

and carry the cold. Wind through the trees<\/span><\/p>\n

is the flute calling us home<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

\"Coast<\/p>\n

Inspection
\n<\/span>Editor’s note: JG is short for Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG), the second lowest commissioned officer in the U.S. Coast Guard.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Are you wearing a wig?<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

There’s a point in the distance where the river
\nmeets itself. The river thinks ahead. The water
\nstreams through me, full-flush of guilt.
\nThere’s a current in my breath as I inhale
\nto say yes<\/em> when Lamet beside me says no<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Son, are you leveling with me?<\/em> the JG spits.<\/span><\/p>\n

No sir Lamet blushes. His wig, bushy-brown,
\nflops on his neck. Adrenaline surges
\nthrough me, itches my neck. Will my
\nbobby pins fall out? Will my wig cap
\ndroop like Grandmother’s stockings?<\/span><\/p>\n

I’ve known for a long time you’re wearing a wig.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

It’s Lamet’s first time wearing a short-hair wig.
\nI’ve been wearing mine for months. My real hair
\nfalls to my shoulders, warms my ears.
\nThe JG can’t remember my name
\nsince I don’t wear a nametag.<\/span><\/p>\n

Are you a wannabe girl, Lamet? Get a haircut.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

The JG’s mustache wobbles before he speaks.
\nWe call him Miss Prissy. We know he wears
\nsock garters to show his magnificent blue socks
\nwhen he sits, crosses his legs. Never a shirt stain.
\nAlways a flick of red hair under his hat.<\/span><\/p>\n

Where’s <\/span>your <\/span><\/span>National Defense Medal?<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Standing still, I’m floating away from this whirlpool–
\na duck riding downstream bobbing around rocks
\nand the whoosh of words that hiss like waterfalls.
\nThe JG steps into me. Expensive aftershave.
\nHe snorts and fingers my neck.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/span>John Davis<\/strong> is the author of Gigs<\/em> and The Reservist.<\/em> His work has appeared in DMQ Review<\/em>, Iron Horse Literary Review<\/em>,<\/span> Terrain.org<\/span><\/a> and other publications.<\/span> He is a retired high-school teacher and plays in blues and rock-and-roll bands. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea near Seattle, Washington in the United States.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Click for our interview with John Davis.<\/strong><\/span><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

We invite you to visit John Davis online and read more of his poetry by clicking here<\/span><\/a>.<\/span>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

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