J.S. Absher

A Life: The Topical Index

1926 – 1977

          It is said that sometimes even fear
          drops away….

             Geoffrey Hill

he couldn’t talk

about his mama put away for years
about my sister he abused for years 
about suicide—son, would you swear
above me a little square of light 
aches with brightness fading from the room?
 
after an early killer frost 
after the years he lost 
before he calmed himself by singing
before he could change his mind
before he could make it plumb and square
 
before he testified and cursed
before he went first, machete swinging 
eyes wide, nostrils flared
took the pills and made it worse

he loved

his daughter in leotards 
how dew turned to haze in summer heat
repo’ing cars from shiftless bastards
slaughtering hogs for meat
the butter in his molasses 
the cigar in his mouth sweet with honey 
the hardest apples Mama could buy
the mottled yellow of Gloria Mundi’s 
the rhythm of swinging a scythe 
through the leaning grasses 
to pay old Adam’s tithe 
to redeem with sweat his sins
 
women in the dark 
yellow ears sunbursting from the shuck

he owned

a Masonic Bible and a ring 
cigar boxes he brought from Costa Rica 
frying pan he cleaned in river sand
hatchet scar’s thin lips, thick-fingered hands’
knack for spilling full to empty
lovely days in the woods lugging
machete, theodolite, and candy stick
 
mic in his head so God could hear 
midnights singing for his walking cane 
the way he could whistle a blackbird’s note
whatever he muttered, joked, or lied
when he left on the midnight train
when pills effaced the green and yellow grief
when whetstone ground his blade too fine

he threw away

a hard-earned career and friendships in ruin 
blood and vomit in the kitchen sink 
forgiveness as if it were a threadbare blanket
his good name for a trifling wage
lightning flash and thunder stone
money jingling in both pockets 
old age at rest, honors to crown old age 
prayers, despairing, to be left alone

submerged in the green noise of the world
the chatter-jawing of a bird
the drone of bees glutting the comb
the old man shaking with belly laughter
the young man striding into a room
to bring joy to his sons and daughter

he told his children

dogs whipped by desire will bay
I lent good money to Clonch’s and McAdoo’s
I rode my thumb to Colorado
I was a sure-fired double-action buckaroo
 
life’s a dead heat with dying 
life’s a series of disappointments 
living’s a morning glory in the hay
noon and the scythe kill it by appointment
 
nothing taught me life’s a bronc tornado
say thank you while you’re still able
two things don’t matter in the slightest
where you are and what the time is
 
wonder why the dead tree’s shadow 
yearns for the weight of green apples

he wanted to know

how a man leaves a room 
under cross examination 
where it rains Virginia Beauties 
where the dauber’s mud is blue 
where the deer graze in peace 
where trees bleed from whitlows on each bloom
where yellow dogs can’t bark at him or run
who swapped his life for short and cheap
 
why a man can never explain 
why he must play a bitter part
why his best days fly
why his better days do not stanch the pain
why his children will grieve and cry 
why love raises welts across the heart
 

he will sing at the resurrection

apples flecked with yellow
birdie birdie birdie the cardinal
calling his mate, the cow’s lonesome bellow 
dirging the loss of her calf
     jubilate deo
 
each night I cast bait into the water
for the pleasure of being with my sons
gazing together at heaven’s stars 
hovering in the river’s reflection
     jubilate deo
 
independence denied me in this world
jolly days in scantling packets
king salmon and pike and pollock
little boy in his blankets curled
     jubilate deo
 
mornings dozing hidden in the hay
nights Mama woke me from bad dreams
oranges and nuts on Christmas Day
preacher preaching the blood redeems
     jubilate deo
 
questions I got no answers to, not in
reasons that made sense to a boy
sulking under a white oak when
the world had lost its joy
     jubilate deo
 
usual beauties you only sometimes notice
vees of wild geese and winter solstice
when cloudless day is cold and light
x-rays you with its knives so bright
     jubilate deo
 
you can see your own white bones
zipped up in your flesh and fear comes on
     jubilate deo

J.S. Absher has published two full-length books of poetry, Skating Rough Ground (Kelsay Press, 2022) and Mouth Work (St. Andrews University Press), winner of the 2015 Lena Shull Award from the North Carolina Poetry Society. Absher’s poems have won prizes from BYU Studies Quarterly and Dialogue and have recently been published or accepted by The McNeese Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Tar River Review. He lives in Raleigh, NC, with his wife, Patti. (www.jsabsherpoetry.com/)