Over the edge of the cannery
dock, processed fish
innards are dumped daily—
lure for prowling scavengers
in Resurrection Bay.
My pole arcs, its tip pointing
to pilings below. I heave
and reel until a briny creature
breaks the surface. I grab
the grotesque head,
its mouth flashing needles.
It coils my left arm. Grip tightens.
I forget to breathe,
barely manage to scream for […]
Seward, Alaska, 1955
We form the Boys’ Alaskan Defense to save
our town from Commies. Our .22s, 16 gauges,
.30-30s will be turned from hunting
to higher purpose.
We haul K-rations, plasma units,
army tennis shoes, other essential stuff,
from poorly padlocked civil
defense bunkers,
stash our supplies in two abandoned
cabins up a nearby valley.
We train all summer at our hideouts—
throw knives at […]
Seward, Alaska, 1954
Holding a .410/.22
over-and-under shotgun
across her knee,
my mother scans the peaks
above Resurrection River.
Her husband’s low camera
catches her right foot braced
on a snow bank. She wears
a blue kerchief, red and black
buffalo check jacket—a displaced
Tennessee girl, now forty,
with eleven year old son,
two years into a failing
marriage.
Here, she is
still
trying.
Too real is this feeling of make believe
Too real when I feel what my heart can’t conceal
(Buck Ram, 1956)
The only other passenger
on the San Bus was Howard
Rhudy, a maintenance
man at the TB sanitarium.
Everyone knew Howard
wrote poetry and was
scholarly.
Howard saw me
absorbing words
copied from The Platters’ latest
hit. I handed him the page
when he asked to see […]
Near our trailer park home
I explore the meander
of a narrow stream.
Dark gurgle
discloses a mortal
struggle. I grab
the slimy tail,
flop it to the bank,
drag it home.
Proud.
It’s nothing
but a spawning salmon
full of
worms.
Once again
to my mother’s husband,
I do not measure up,
will never be
a fisher-
man.
Seward, Alaska, 1952
Nearby woods concealed
World War II machine gun
nests where my Boy Scout patrol
practiced manhood, badge by badge.
Best of all was the old barbed
wire compound and watch tower—
the prisoner of war camp.
There we slung
stout darts of weeds
at one another
shouted victory,
rarely considered
the camp’s purpose
or the pleasant
decayed odor of
its latrine.
Seward, 1953
My first paper job
was mostly to please my stepfather,
who’d match the five cents I made
from each paper. I was 10, would run
to hawk in early Saturday morning bars,
where old Alaskans drank, many of them lacking
parts of frostbitten noses or ears.
Once, my customers toasted my innocence
to spice resolution of a bar dispute. Did the […]
In the wild Alaskan yard
of the Muller’s home, I hide
from the other kids. If I
stay very still and will
myself invisible, I won’t be
seen. It works.
But now,
years later,
I can’t
stop.
(No. 52 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
My mother’s new husband, Dick,
decided it would be embarrassing
for me to have a different last name
when we moved to this small Alaskan town.
But now Lincoln Trigg and Larcie Mathieson
older native kids whose folks were in the nearby
TB sanitarium, pulp my shoulders with their fists,
outraged by my Tennessee accent
and mercilessly taunt me
about my new
name.
Seward, 1952
