We are happy to introduce Martha Clarkson as Word Riot’s new Poetry Editor. –WR STAFF
How She Described Her Ex-Husband When the Police Called
He’s the man who wants to live on Park Place
but can only afford Virginia, the Pennsylvania line
running through his backyard, fast as a chance.
He’s the hat who owes a luxury tax.
He’s a no-trump bid without all the aces. A queen finesse,
eight ever, nine never, that fails to fall
into the dummy just right.
He’s down a trick.
Just call him Colonel Mustard, pinning Miss Scarlett
against the conservatory wall but rubbing noses (literally)
with Mrs. Peacock, endowed by her old money.
He needs cash and carries a lead pipe.
Slow to ante up, he’s jackpot dreams, quad or flush
scraping the felt for another card
odds turning on the river.
He’s a bluff on junk.
He’s the joker pinned in bicycle spokes
vanishing down the street.
Published in Rattle, Summer 2008
Mowing the Lawn with My Father
In the beginning my mother
would occupy the grey world
behind the screen door
arms crossed, smug apron smile
watching us do the first of her chore list
small push mower spewing grass hairs
in sweet arcs to the catcher
I trimmed edges with clippers
that spread wider than my small hands
jumped to take the full catcher
to the trash can and we’d pretend
we were spinach farmers
weighing our haul, shouting out
market rates, leaf lengths
we were farmers on that small city lot
our crops cashing in, our spinach
the finest variety, my mother
at the screen later, her face grey
with disapproval at our gaiety
she could shake anything pretty
into ugly, and later, when my father lay
on the sofa listening to the opera broadcast
and I above in my room unbothered
by arias, racing hot wheels
my mother chored through the house
adding to her lists, bracing herself
for the next jealous round
Published Clackamas Literary Review
How to Make a Banana Milkshake
Get up while he’s still sleeping
even though it’s not your apartment.
Leave him with the sheet wrapped PG-like at his waist,
white against his tan back, a mattress commercial.
Put on his discarded T-shirt, lying in a rushed wad on the floor –
this is the sexy thing to wear, hem hanging just below.
Go quietly, soon enough the blender will wake him.
On the counter, find the bananas he bought,
knowing they’d be needed for something.
Peel back the silent yellow skin, see its slippery whitewashed lining.
Sneak the bite off the point, because you will anyway,
the tender cone tip asks to be eaten.
Pack vanilla ice cream into the chrome Waring blender he grew up with.
Add milk, slice in banana, falling off the knife like quarters for the poor –
it will be an all-white morning.
Find straws in the cupboard next to the liquor,
when you didn’t expect to but looked anyway.
Drink your uncolored milkshakes in bed –
still four white walls, a vacant site,
a smear of red across it, lipstick graffiti.
Be caught slurping through the straw at the end,
just to be sure.
About the author:
Martha Clarkson manages corporate workplace design in Seattle. Her poetry and fiction can be found in Crab Creek Review, Clackamas Literary Review, descant, Seattle Review, Portland Review, monkeybicycle, elimae, and Nimrod. She is a recipient of a Washington State Poets William Stafford prize, a Pushcart Nomination, and is listed under “Notable Stories,” Best American Non-Required Reading for 2007.
