By David Stallings © 2008
We haven’t seen each other for years.
At tonight’s gathering, it’s take-out
lasagna and tired salad.
My step-nephew chats
amiably, sunglasses atop
his constant baseball cap. His mother
says Steve’s been traveling—
launching nephew into storied visits
to the Vegas adult entertainment expo.
He fetches photos to illustrate reported
marvels—pendulous latex breasts,
perfect be-thonged bottoms,
astonishingly realistic
woman dolls.
Pictures pass over cheesecake
and decaf in murmured appreciation.
When they […]
By David Stallings © 2007
My partner buried eight human placentas
in a circle at our meadow’s edge.
A midwife, she invoked the feminine
from all directions. In turn,
I carved a twelve-foot cedar pole,
erected it at the center.
When she and I divorced,
the pole traveled with me.
I planted the shaft,
somewhat shorter by this time,
on property shared with my new partner.
Things with her have […]
By David Stallings © 2007
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 […]
By David Stallings © 2004
My morning exercise
includes repetitively curling a pair
of 20-pound dumbbells.
I stand in my Jockey “Slim Guy”
underwear envisioning myself a tall,
mesomorphic, light-skinned black man.
My muscles don’t bulge
but gracefully arrange themselves
in fluid proportions.
This helps.
Today I curl before the bathroom mirror,
to confirm my long-held image.
Bad move.
Faltering, I quickly step away,
to become the svelte,
cat-like jungle man
who I
am.
(No. 70 in a […]
By David Stallings © 2004
Once my mother’s husband
made me cut off the head
of a chicken.
This was another effort
to make me into something
we each sensed I was not,
a man.
I clutched the chicken
by its horny feet,
extending its neck
over wood block.
Two hatchet blows necessary
to sever head strings and bones.
Then one leg sprang free
and the chicken twirled ‘round,
a wing flapping phantasm,
spraying blood and […]
By David Stallings © 2003
Sometimes friends share the climb
of Cold Mountain.
On a middle slope,
Jack stops to pee—
a large circle in the dusty path.
“If you guys can say something about that,
then let’s go on,” he challenges.
Larry steps into the circle,
sits like a mountain top.
I curtsey to his stone figure.
“If you characters can do that,
we just won’t go on,” Jack asserts.
“What […]
