Five Poems by Kenneth Pobo
NO LONGER BOARD
As a teen, I wondered what would I do if I fell in love with the wrong person. My neighborhood, my school, my church agreed that anyone I fell in love with would be wrong. A big requirement: marry a woman, not a man. Love was like Monopoly-- follow the same squares and roll the same twelve numbers all the time, every time. I stopped playing Monopoly--what properties did the board have that provided anything I needed? Better to find a guy who would take a ride on the Reading with me—far away from the board where we could be Mexican flame vines climbing a trellis together, intertwined, sharing orange flowers. |
OUR BIRCH
An ice storm deleted a trunk. We expected it to die, sawed it off. In spring branches began to leaf. That missing trunk helps us see orange tithonias even from our porch. |
ST. THERESE AND A CLOWN
In the antique store, a painting of St. Therese beside one of a clown. She holds a broken Christ on a crucifix among fading pink roses. The clown’s mouth, a zipper. Unlike her, he looks woeful. I try but can’t laugh at the clown. He’s wounded. Her peaceful smile, maybe a tad smug, someone who believes without questioning. As a child she cried often. Did the clown weep too but hid his tears until his mouth cracked? Therese died at 24, faded into the pink of her roses. The nameless clown stares us down, lips closed, speaking. |
PARTY FAVORS
In junior high l wrote John 3:16 on my notebook cover next to a doodle of Mama Cass, wondered how it would feel to say fuck. To scream it. In church! As Pastor Clack demanded that we drink at the springs of living water, what if I screamed out fuck? I licked bad words like envelopes. Even damn was too risky. How easily a kid can fall from heavenly spires onto flaming frogs in hell. Still, I said it. In my room. Out loud before falling asleep. Like a wet dream, it just happened. Once the word got free, more followed. Party favor words I handed out to friends and strangers, not my parents who would punish me, those party poopers. Sing, the words said—surprise the melody. |
AT FOURTEEN
I knew better keep my mouth shut. Or they’ll get me, the peace-and-love kids with their Doors albums waiting after school. In our county Do your own thing only went so far. Long hair, yes, jeans, yes, but gay? Ask them why that matters and they push you against your locker. It’s school, you’re at risk—everyday. Jackson Junior High, named for a guy who demanded the trail of tears and slavery. His picture hangs in the White House. |
Kenneth Pobo has a book of prose poems forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House called The Antlantis Hit Parade. His work has appeared in: Atlanta Review, Crannog, Amsterdam Review, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.