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The Genuine Article

Kim Ode

A Lucky Park ProductionSt. Paul, Minnesota

2011

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TracksHosting................................................................................6God Gets the Night Shift....................................................8The Genuine Article............................................................9Love Bug...........................................................................10Wishing and Hoping.........................................................11Bake Until Done...............................................................12Airborne............................................................................13Someday I Will Complain of Heat....................................14Pessimists..........................................................................16Optimists...........................................................................17Jetsam................................................................................18The Newsroom..................................................................19Sweet Revenge..................................................................20

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HostingTeenagers are everywhere.In the kitchen.On the deck.I am the shortest person here.I am not a nervous wreck Yet. The kids have just over an hourBefore curfew.Lovely law.Then I get my house backAnd can stop biting my lip Again. It’s not tension so much asEnvy and aweAt their ease with each other.It’s not like I want do-oversOf high school. Just shoot me

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Now. No, it’s mostly about acceptingThat I’m the mom here.Those situations that make me quakeLike I'm 15 are pimpled evidenceThat life, still, is so not fair.

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God Gets the Night ShiftI remember my momSitting on the edge of the bed,Teaching me a bedtime prayerAs I laid me down to sleep.Four lines and an amenSeemed just right.Years later, I learned that there were linesAbout never again waking up,And realized that momMust have considered the consequencesOf a tired child contemplating mortality.I remember asking her why we prayInstead of just rolling over.She said it’s a nice thingTo think about someone’s loveGuarding us through the night.Years later, I learned that’s how mothersLet themselves sleep.

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The Genuine ArticleThe ferns and philodendronsIn malls and doctors’ waiting roomsAre puzzlers.The fakes can look more realThan real plants,So much so that I find myselfReaching surreptitiously,Always surprised when they’re alive.It’s gotten so that I feel stupidWhatever the outcome,Either stroking plastic leaves,Or pinching a frond with roots in Eden.So when you tell me that you love me,I decide to just believe you.

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Love BugA mosquito works the screenGambling endless minutes of its brief existenceOn the hunchThat there’s a hole.

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Wishing and HopingGetting the cute boy for a lab partner …Returning a loan officer’s handshake …Glimpsing the last wedge of chocolate cakeAs the waiter pulls out your chair …The way our eyes light upWith the possibility of good fortuneDoes not go unobserved.The wise witness knowsHow to exploit our expectations,Just as the savvy sea captain knewThe miles he could gainOn the prospect of mermaids more comelyThan those the lookoutSwore he’d glimpsed.

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Bake Until DoneYou could do worse than lookTo an old church cookbookWhen pondering questions such as,How long?How much?How many?Finding that the answer often is“Enough.”Wisdom so pure and plainWe tend to underestimate its value,Much as those women who sat in the pewsSilently devising new recipesWhile the pastor reminded them to be meek.

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AirborneThe tornado lifted my father,Not so far up that he saw cowsOr farmhouses or wicked witches,But far enough that he found himselfOn the other side of the harrow,Transported over the honed edgesOf those determined steel discsThat made short workOf last fall’s cornstalks and cockleburrs.He’d climbed from the tractorTo gauge the gun-metal cloud,Only to find himself eastWhen he’d been west.Wondering – and not for the last time --Whether he’d been toyed with,Or rescued.

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Someday I Will Complain of HeatI’m tired of stomping my shoesBefore walking into a buildingBound by the grim etiquetteOf dutifully shedding slush. I’m tired of looking for my other gloveAnd embarrassed by how I clingTo the hope that I’ll find it.As if this winter should be any different. I’m tired of mincing along sidewalksIn that stupid flat-footed waddleAnd hearing about your ice damAnd seeing panty hose flung in gutters. I’m tired of knowing that Per Hansa’s bodyWasn’t found until the next May

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Yet unthawed after seeking refugeIn a distant haystack. I’m tired of coping with March,Which isn’t that different from February.I dream of the day I grow tiredOf coping with another scorcher.

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PessimistsUnstaked tomatoesLet them keep bitching aboutToo few BLTs.

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OptimistsThey know how it feelsWhen a cat launches herselfAt a passing bird.

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JetsamFrom the sand, the battered prow of a canoeBreaks the lake bottom's liquid lines.Over there, a coffee mug that arrivedWith curses in its wake.Each summer, there is a new thing:BinocularsSunglassesA fishing rodIrretrievable under fathoms of rain and snowmelt.A fish, with a flick of its tail, avoidsColliding with an empty beer bottleOn its way down.It clinks against an abandoned anchor,Breaking into alehouse shards.Given enough wind, and waves, and time,One fragment stands a slim chance of ending upAs softly sculpted sea glass on some scrounger's shelf.If only it can achieve a beach.

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The NewsroomBy the time I was hiredThe grid of linoleum squaresWas the color of sloshed coffee,Grimier along the cracksWorried into gouges by reporters waitingWith the smug patience of catsFor the mayorOr the principalOr the CEOOr the girlfriendTo decide which version of the truthWould fly.So when the linoleum went,So did some of the old strategies.In the face of unstained fibersExplanations seemed cleaner.Then someone dumped their latteAnd we could start smirking again.

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Sweet RevengeHe didn't need to tell the newspaper reporterHow he'd decided to reach downAnd grab a Snickers barOnly to have the next guySeize the momentAnd reach around himTo buy a lottery ticket,As if that also was like winning.And how, instead of making a scene,He just bought the next ticket,Which led to this interviewBecause the MegaMillions jackpotReally was.He didn't need to tell the story.But he knew that word gets around.That it was a Snickers bar?You just can't make that up.

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Kim Ode will forever be a farmer's daughter from South Dakota. But she's also a baker, a mother and a journalist. She likes how life sounds more intriguing when it's put inside a poem.

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