CLIFTON, OREGON
What is it, Clifton?
Why’d I come back to be
Near you,
Near the ruins of what was–
The fish heads
The sea lions
The workers
The pines.
Why’d I come back to this place
As if a steamboat had dropped me off
At the wrong dock
And I, travel weary,
Had stepped to shore without question
Except for where
Can I lay down
My things?
What is it, Clifton?
Why’d you have to draw me
Down that road
Off the highway
So I’d lay my eyes
On the water-logged posts
Standing loyally
Stubbornly
In the river
Like a whole slew of hosts
Waiting to welcome me
Back.
Or maybe
Their backs are turned
To me
As they wait for their ships
Arriving from the sea–
Ghost ships.
They wait
And wait
As the dregs of the cannery
Sway at their bases
And real fish
Swim by.
What, Clifton, is it
That you expect me to do
Knowing you
Held your workers captive–
No stores near by
No train
No boat
For days
At a time
No language to share
Just bunks and stoves
Knives and cans
The smell
Of fish
And fish again.
Clifton, what is it
Worth
My being here
Amidst nothing left
Save workers’ great
Grandchildren
Smoking meth
Amidst their children
And a chance
A small chance
One among them might be
The millionaire’s descendent
Repenting.
FACING THE LAESTRYGONIANS
You,
You eaters of men.
You launchers of rocks
From high cliffs.
I see you and all your antics.
You think I’m fazed
By your big show?
You think I’m all a flutter with fear
Over your gastronomic histrionics?
You burp the taste of my sailors
Pick a femur out from between your teeth
Run your tongue across your lips
For a bit more brain
A morsel more braun.
I know a bad thing when I see it.
You act like you’re the worst
A person could ever encounter
But I’m half way home
And I’ve seen plenty.
At some point it just becomes
The next new thing.
Nothing worse or better.
Just,
Ok.
Now this.
Now we’ve got giants
Eating our scouts
And throwing rocks at us.
I mean,
Sure,
It’ll be a good story to tell some day
Along with all the others.
But it’s not like I’m going to say to my grandkids
“But oh! You should have seen those
Laestrygonians!
They were the end all and be all!”
Because you know what?
You weren’t.
You just plain old weren’t.
Really, you were just like a bad date
Among a handful of bad dates.
Something to shrug off
Then forget
Because there’s more important things
To think about.
Like
How tired I am
How hardened I am
How fricking lucky I am
That my wife
Has stuck with me
Through all this hullabaloo
I’ve been through.
Boats and war and water and monsters
And these women
Always trying to seduce me
Into forgetting
I’ve already got it
Made.
You big meatheads
You big doofuses
Got nothing
On those women.
Go ahead and eat my sailors.
That’s nothing compared
To the sirens’ song
And the rope marks
Still burned into my skin
From riding it out
While bound to the mast
All blue balled.
Nope.
You’re just a meager
Inconvenience.
A bunch of pea-brained
Lugnuts
Keeping the story going
Till I get back
To my own
Bed.
Keep hurling rocks
As I sail away.
I’ll stand at the aft
Flip up my skirt
And fart at you
As water splashes up on my sandals.
That’s how much I care.
Life does this
To a man.
Tough skin
And a cynical heart–
Lucky for you
I wasn’t the one you
Bit into.
Any way you big oafs,
Last time I’ll be visiting you.
You’ve already grown smaller
With each nautical mile
My ship’s sailed away from you.
Tiny little men.
A tiny chapter.
Hardly even that.
A foot note.
Watch your feet.
Water’s cold and deep
And you are shallow little things
With appetites immature
And not one good story
To tell.
I.S. Welsh is a writer living in the Pacific Northwest.
I.S. Welsh is a writer living in the Paci