{"id":211,"date":"2011-05-19T10:12:49","date_gmt":"2011-05-19T10:12:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue9\/?page_id=211"},"modified":"2011-09-28T06:36:17","modified_gmt":"2011-09-28T06:36:17","slug":"stuart-ross","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/writings\/poetry\/stuart-ross\/","title":{"rendered":"Stuart Ross"},"content":{"rendered":"

Fathers Shave<\/strong><\/h1>\n

Father shaves. Details follow.<\/p>\n

The blade rips the bristles<\/p>\n

from his cheeks, his chin,<\/p>\n

beneath his thunderous<\/p>\n

nose. It rips the carpet<\/p>\n

and the curtains, rips<\/p>\n

Sylvester the Cat<\/p>\n

right off the TV screen.<\/p>\n

We children cry.<\/p>\n

The blade rips the welcome<\/p>\n

mat off our porch, the<\/p>\n

grass off our lawn,<\/p>\n

the trees off our block,<\/p>\n

oh weeping willows.<\/p>\n

Father goes to the office.<\/p>\n

His boss caresses<\/p>\n

his smooth face. The<\/p>\n

clients ooh and ahh.<\/p>\n

The streets are bare<\/p>\n

of cars. One planet<\/p>\n

hurtles into another.<\/p>\n

There are no prizes<\/p>\n

in a bag of Cheezees,<\/p>\n

but in Pink Elephant<\/p>\n

Popcorn you get a<\/p>\n

little sticker or maybe<\/p>\n

a tiny soldier with a<\/p>\n

parachute you can<\/p>\n

drop out your second-<\/p>\n

floor window. Look!<\/p>\n

He drifts down.<\/p>\n

He drifts in the breeze.<\/p>\n

The jays and sparrows<\/p>\n

gaze on in wonder.<\/p>\n

I Left my Station <\/strong><\/h1>\n

 <\/p>\n

They told me to sit right there.<\/p>\n

I sang the praises of the secret police.<\/p>\n

I felt the cool of lips on my brow.<\/p>\n

I felt the barrel of a gun in my rib.<\/p>\n

Each toe on my feet curled like a boll weevil.<\/p>\n

Her voice was as pretty as a pretty thing.<\/p>\n

Who was it I once loved?<\/p>\n

I received an urgent phone call.<\/p>\n

I realized I was not a human-shaped magnet.<\/p>\n

I learned to play a broken mandolin.<\/p>\n

Clouds made of porridge parted in the sky.<\/p>\n

Seven blind crows swooped by.<\/p>\n

A fire broke out at the Memorial Hall.<\/p>\n

They poured a bucket of water on me.<\/p>\n

I shrugged my big shoulders.<\/p>\n

I left my station.<\/p>\n

Cobourg, Night<\/strong><\/h1>\n

 <\/p>\n

If I shove the boxes<\/p>\n

of books aside, drag<\/p>\n

the curtains, crane my neck<\/p>\n

just so, I can see the clock<\/p>\n

on Victoria Hall. It<\/p>\n

chimes twice. My parents<\/p>\n

died in another city<\/p>\n

75 minutes away. The story<\/p>\n

of their lives, as filmed<\/p>\n

by Ealing Studios, is screened<\/p>\n

on the night sky. Here<\/p>\n

it is exotic. Tonight:<\/p>\n

the screening. Tomorrow:<\/p>\n

the Pulled Pork Festival.<\/p>\n

Down below, vines have tumbled<\/p>\n

from the brick walls, encumbering<\/p>\n

the porch. A green ribbon has<\/p>\n

unravelled. I wind it tightly<\/p>\n

around my well-sucked thumb.<\/p>\n

Waves of a Useless Sky <\/strong><\/h1>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Say how pleased you are.<\/p>\n

A hunched and marvellous<\/p>\n

kiss. I rumble with ideas:<\/p>\n

an average idea, a luminous idea,<\/p>\n

an idea that struts, puffed,<\/p>\n

through the sky.<\/p>\n

You and your<\/p>\n

far-off limbs, wandering<\/p>\n

amid the sequined detritus,<\/p>\n

the indignant beach of toxicity.<\/p>\n

It is true: I have changed.<\/p>\n

Once I was a sofa, lost<\/p>\n

in the wind.<\/p>\n

Now I am a horse,<\/p>\n

I mean a house, swimming<\/p>\n

through the waves of a useless sky.<\/p>\n

Reminder: the quiet supermarket<\/p>\n

yields love, yields headlines,<\/p>\n

yields a special kind<\/p>\n

of wakefulness. So far,<\/p>\n

nobody argues.<\/p>\n

A thing<\/p>\n

with a face desires nothing,<\/p>\n

whispers pleasingly, launches us<\/p>\n

into the lecturing night.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Fathers Shave Father shaves. Details follow. The blade rips the bristles from his cheeks, his chin, beneath his thunderous nose. It rips the carpet and the curtains, rips Sylvester the Cat right off the TV screen. We children cry. The blade rips the welcome mat off our porch, the grass off our lawn, the trees […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":203,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"authorpoetry.php","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-211","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/211","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=211"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/211\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":700,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/211\/revisions\/700"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/203"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=211"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}