Archive

Volume 11.1

Robert Clifton

Southern Rail

I was warned from them, venomous
                    and naturally the most beautiful,

creamy yellow tails darkening to copper
                    and rust near the head.

The ones to fear, not blacksnakes
                    thick as braided cables, stretching

across highway lines or coiled on wooden steps
                    to the beach, more likely to slither away

into honeysuckle bushes lining the road
                    or onto cool sand shaded by staircases.

Those could be anything we imagined,
                    mouthpieces and cords of Bakelite phones,

discs whirring through dialed numbers,
                    leather belts folded, raised overhead,

swung through air laced with aftershave
                    and commercials for no lye relaxer,

available in three shades:
                    mahogany, sienna, and auburn.

My parents dressing for dinner out,
                    letting me watch Soul Train

as they shaved and sprayed perfume,
                    reached into closets for neckties and pearls,

the same belt that threatened to welt
                    my thighs circling his waist.

Sound of their car pulling away,
                    warmth rushing my belly,

my red hair fanning their pillows.
                    Lace stockings, garter belts I slipped

from my mother’s dresser drawers,
                    lying naked on the bed stroking

as the O’Jays sang Who am I,
                    who am I. Purple strobes brushing

the dance floor into ocean waves.
                    Spotlights dark as bruises I’d be given

if I were caught, the screen suddenly
                    a two-way mirror. Pleasure of being seen,

brought onto the dance floor writhing
                    in parade, grasped behind the head,

mouth pried open, fangs extended,
                    milked hard. Every boy on my street

knew they were poisonous, copperheads
                    hiding in attics and on basement floors,

a nest of them hissing in the crawlspace
                    under our house.

Brandon D L

Brandon Dean Lamson is the author of Starship Tahiti, winner of the Juniper Prize, and his recent poems have appeared in Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, and Third Coast. His memoir, Caged: A Teacher's Journey Through Rikers, or How I Beheaded the Minotaur, was released last spring by Fordham University Press. Currently, he teaches literature and creative writing at the University of Texas at Austin.

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