Cruel Gifts

1.

A box of shells. A hand-me-down belt
A vial of ash from Mount Saint Helens
A felt sleeve, moldering in memory
Under box springs, wreaking

Privately for forty-four years…
Pull it up. Feel the hardwood. Slick heft
The cool gleam of it. Press your cheek to it
Go ahead. Play with the safety

2.

He’s fourteen. Discovering new tricks
Behind the tennis courts. She’s sixteen. It’s love
Then deuce. His palm on the girl’s palm
Trying to hold her racquet back. But she’s

Gifted. Plays without a net. His serve is no
Match. She’s been around the block
Her game doesn’t stop. Her volley comes
Gift-wrapped in lipstick

3.

He’s a father now. No honeysuckle
Stain on his collar. His black powder’s
Turned to an off-white dust on
A dry-rot mantle. She’s only

A ghost now. Wrapped in visqueen
Stashed in the attic for nosy daughters
She holds all these half-truths, &
More. Go ahead. Feel for the spiders––

____________________________________________

Scot Siegel lives in Oregon with his wife and two daughters. He is the author of three volumes of poetry, Some Weather (Plain View Press 2008), Untitled Country (Pudding House Publications 2009), and Skeleton Says (Finishing Line Press, 2010). A second full-length collection is due out from Salmon Poetry in early 2012. His work has recently appeared in Press 1, Front Porch, The Smoking Poet, The Oregonian, and The Centrifugal Eye.