Sample Poems by Leslie Anne Mcilroy
Siesta
I do errands early
on a day this hot,
putting the groceries
away before noon
cutting lemons,
arranged on a
plate like a sun
burst. I wear my wide
brimmed hat and tip
it back with the first
shot of Cuervo.
In this wooden
chair I read thin
books, the flat boards
of the porch
scorched and dry,
the way I imagine
it is in Arizona
or New Mexico -
there, the heat is un-
beatable and young
men grow skin
like leather to protect,
squinting occasionally
at the horizon
between swallows
of beer.
Now it is two,
and three lemons
are left. The line
of sun cuts the tips
of my toes, makes
my eyes crackle
like two thin leaves.
Turning the page
I find a note
in the margin
about forgiving
and rise to brush
the salt from my lap.
October
Somewhere in central Florida
my father lies buried, and with him
a fair part of my changing heart
milling restless in the soil
of that hot state, its crab
grass and sand so unlike Pittsburgh -
leaves ripe with the will
to scatter and fall
If I could, I would bring him home,
back to the chill morning
that hoisted him up telephone poles
as a Bell lineman, hovering in a harness
above the street, leaning against
the sky like a casual visitor. He knew
which wires to cut, where to find
a weak connection.
At night, beneath an old Plymouth
he would work, slim and angular
with scoured blue eyes, skin rugged
and worn as I stood still in the damp
garage air - the smell of oil, the backward
silence of the October night claiming
its place between my breath
and the concrete floor. Dressed
in pajamas and without prayers,
I held the caged lantern light
so he could see, his knuckles
chapped and scraped
as he forced a piece of metal
into place and waved me closer,
greased the base of the thing
that would make the car run.
Then lighting a cigarette and wiping
the grease from his hands,
he slipped the denim jacket over
my shoulders, shut out the light,
wandered off to a warmer place.