Stuart Dischell

LINES ABOUT ECHOES

Hiding like a dead man’s gold,

Echoes have been known to keep to themselves

And seem cruel when they offer no canyon

Affirmation that something I say deserves

To be aired again. Or maybe an echo says what I say

But too softly for me to hear. Echoes are capricious,

Not show up for a long drive or leave me waiting

At the party when they have already split.

Some echoes might only be dozing in their cots

And sleep through the voice that attempts awakening.

What if echoes formed an Echo Guild and met

Saturdays at the Echo Temple, what if echoes

Sold themselves after hours at the fair? Echoes

Like all of us have long journeys home. I call you

In the middle of the night from a burner phone.

You don’t recognize the number, won’t answer.

LINES FOR MY RETIREMENT

Inside my mother,

The weeks went by so slowly

In our seacoast town.

They said I was developing. Then all

Through school I awaited summer,

Buzzing like a green fly

Outside the classroom windows,

Then graduation and college parties,

And the notion of lovers,

Then one person forever,

Books and children--

Then a condo by some water,

A treasure buried in the sand…

When you wait so long

To be born it’s as if you never lived at all.

SMALL POTATOES

“…you do not eat/that which rips your heart with joy.”

Thomas Lux, Refrigerator, 1957

“Mold has a mind of its own,”

My grandmother never said. but

As I clean the refrigerator, I think

That she had other things to say,

Mostly complaints about her feet

And how nothing tastes the same

But is more expensive. Take

Celery for example or winter-

Green mints, or boiled

Chicken, string beans, and new

Potatoes she ate every night

And tried to feed me when

My parents went out of town.

Sometimes she would steam

Just carrots and onions, no

Herbs, just salt and pepper

And sometimes squeeze over

A used half-cut, dried out lemon

She kept where I keep one

Now inside my refrigerator

Door in the clear plastic bin

Next to the sweet butter.