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Posts Tagged ‘Andy P.’

Nineteen years ago this summer

January 13, 2011 8 comments

by Andy P.

Bill

Rueben’s
wiry arms
flung dirt
into neat piles,
his shovel just
faster than mine.

Inside, Ann
sang Yesterday
over the clanks
of soapy dishes,
and I caught her
watching us at work.

Rueben glanced
from Ann to me
to Ann, his shovel
pounding away,
strong as a piston,
steady as a lullaby.

Rueben

Andy had his
round Pokel nose
up against
the window,
and my girl
was doing dishes.

I was just thankful
for the task,
something simple
to agree on
without words,

no need to say
out loud
what my hands
could always
say better.

Ann

Bill and Dad
were digging,
lifting the metal
swing set
into wet cement,

working in silence
or speaking
the brief language
of nuts and bolts,

every polite word
or approving nod
meant for me.

Andy

Dad had hair
and Grandpa
leaned on a shovel
instead of a cane,
the stroke still
a year away.

Dad’s hands
were stronger
but Grandpa’s
were wiser,
and mine were
two years old,

reaching out,
thwarted by
smudged glass.


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Andy P. is a recent graduate of St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota with a degree in vocal music education. He currently works as a Tour Actor/Director with Missoula Children’s Theatre. Andy spends his free time writing music and poetry.

Categories: Translation Tags:

For Adam

January 18, 2008 2 comments

You, leaning against
the stall, eyes half closed
as if you’d blacked out
in the middle of a piss,
and me, on the cold
tile floor like a teenager’s
abandoned newborn.
You read poetry
with passion and a slur,
you said you’d been
just like me and promised
I’d be just like you
before long.

I blinked up at you,
taking in the mingling
odors of stale urinal cakes
and cheap vodka, the light
that seemed to flicker
as you swayed in and out
of its path, your bloodshot
eyes begging for and
forbidding my judgment,
and the room echoed
with everything I almost said.

by Andy P.

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Categories: Hidden Messages Tags:

Bees

November 21, 2007 3 comments

They lie scattered
along dusty windowsills,
their half-moon corpses
like white crosses
on the interstate,

and we, who are drunk
on survival, who are as small
as we’ve imagined ourselves
in nightmares, need

to know that they didn’t feel
any pain, that their tiny lives
were worth living, that they died
in search of sweetness.

by Andy P.

Categories: Insecta Tags: