Jennifer L. Knox
Days are, and the planets scuttle into a wickedly delicious, throbbing and delightful arrangement of auspicious alignment. Other days, they cannot manage even the idea of such a feat.
Today I present three poems by Jennifer L. Knox. Which makes it a rare day of the former sort. Ho, best of donkey. Ha, best of horse.
Fuck, yes.
Thanks, Jennifer.
***
The Mules of Death Valley
Hauling bone-white borax up from the hellish Harmony
Mine Works in July. Each on the train, the end
of its line. The end, mule. Ya.
How sad. Soft ears and whip-
cracking clever, drivers said.
Patient. Affectionate. Loyal. Beloved.
Ho, best of donkey. Ha, best
of horse.
They can kick in all directions but won’t
willy-nilly. Ideal companions for lone
prospectors plodding past Badwater’s tease,
past the thin, unhinged shacks of Rhyolite.
There [he spots two specks—another
man and mule—maybe a half day’s off].
Why would God give such gifts to an end of-
the-line animal that loves only this world now—
loves only those of this now—the ones mad
enough to leave green homes and farms for Furnace Creek.
There’re no others to love.
Both are the ends of their lines.
For years Scotty blabbed about a mine so deep
it went clean through the earth.
The only other set of eyes to ever fall upon it were
a mule’s.
Why give soft ears where God’s grace
melts fast as ice?
***
Marriage
All year, crawling home from bars—through snow, rain and sweat-stinging summer nights. But in August peonies began to beckon me from the kept yards of houses we’d never own because we couldn’t keep money in our pockets, because we were always going to bars, because we never cared for the quiet work of caring. We stuffed ourselves fat on clutter and glitter—on meat and beer and Mardi Gras beads—taking in and in but never taking care. How did such blowzy flowers manage to come back after nine months of bitter winter? Tough blood. I’d steal them whether in full fluffy bloom, or still in budlike fists. The bright fibrous stems were a bitch to sever, even with my teeth. Many times trying to boost a bouquet, I yanked a whole bush out by the roots. He’d stand on the sidewalk with a dark smudge for a face and say, “You know what’s gonna happen.” And I did. I’d carry home the flowers I’d risked getting busted for, not trim the stems at an angle, not fill a vase with water and a pinch of sugar or a penny to keep them fresh, nor arrange them high to low like children in a class photograph. Instead I’d dump the lot in a heap on the kitchen table, pass out in my clothes, and snore all night like a pig. The next morning, we would wake to a million ants pouring from the flowers, down the rusty table legs, and onto the wine-spotted rug. Ants are the fingers combing the Filofax pages that are the petals of the peony. I could’ve left them to live, to thrive beside a house—maybe with a little girl inside who made up stories for the flowers about princesses in feathery skirts, but I didn’t. I killed them, then stuffed the seething, gorgeous things into the trash. I could’ve planted my own outside our rented house, heavy with dead Christmas lights, but I didn’t know how to grow things then. I still don’t really, but it’s rare I get drunk enough to tear up someone else’s garden.
***
A Coyote Walks Into a Quizno’s
How gameless must’ve been the plains
to drive it through the traffic of Chicago.
How flat-out busted to muster nonchalance
and sidle by a winding lunch crowd line seeking
handouts from predators and curl up by a cooler
in the dead-end back. Too bushed to shrink
from our hunger’s sour scent. Giving up,
closing in, or had it snapped—seen itself
a son, prodigally lying down among its like?
’Til Animal Control arrived, serene—green
eyes low, but not deferred—primed to parley:
“From one hunter to another, brother,
spare a scrap? I’ll get you back.”
***
About the Poet:
Jennifer L. Knox was born in Lancaster, California—home to Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and the Space Shuttle. Her new book of poems, The Mystery of the Hidden Driveway, will be available on Bloof Books in Fall 2010. Her other books of poems, Drunk by Noon and A Gringo Like Me, are also available through Bloof.
On the identity of The Nepotist:
I think the Nepotist is a type-A workaholic who feels extremely confident in his/her own skin. A cross between Christopher Walken in A View to A Kill, and Ru Paul. He/she probably carries a gun in his/her pocket, but keeps the bullets in a different place. Like Finland. I don't think he/she hails from any of the southern states. He/she often surprises friends with his/her cooking skills, and may regularly participate in live medieval role playing games, like jousting. I'll say Reb Livingston.
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