CHARLES LIVESAY
- Jun 9
- 3 min read
Charles Richard Livesay is a teacher from Knoxville, TN. He has been published in Strange Horizons, Oh Reader, Pictura Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, and oddball magazine, among others. He watches birds, reads books, and sometimes forgets to take out his earbuds before he falls asleep. When that happens, Buck Owens haunts his dreams. Website: charlesrichardlivesay.blogspot.com
THE WAY WE WORK
The owl in my backyard willow wakes up early,
does a goofy dance down a branch.
That shuffle is the only silly thing about him.
Every evening, he gets to work
when the sun dips behind the hills.
Yesterday I took a half-day and
stayed in bed until eleven.
I would have slept later,
but the sun was hot on my face.
Afternoons are easier than mornings.
There’s less commute time.
Pizza suits me better than pancakes.
Falling behind never bothers me.
I can always finish in a rush.
Out back of my house, the fireflies blink.
I don’t know what they’re saying but
the owl understands them.
He weaves between the pinpricks
clutching a squirrel who never saw him coming.
BETWEEN WOOD AND FIRE
Your dad’s fingers wore such deep grooves
into his favorite hammer’s ash handle
that it will never fit your hand comfortably.
He stayed up late nights, strummed
his Gibson Gospel, sang Tom Dooley till
he could moan like it was his neck noosed.
He always sang while he drummed
in nails, too, about the poor boy bound to die
and you felt like you might die
when your mom decided to sling gasoline
out of a supersized McDonald’s cup
onto scrap wood blazing in the backyard.
Like a magic trick, the flames followed the gas
back to her hand in a feverish orange arc.
Was it fear or elation that made you scream
while she managed to dodge?
Patterns. Patience. Impulse. Flames.
The way you stepped to the bridge’s edge and dove
or said no to your friends’ beer funnels,
when you were too chicken to ask Jamie to the prom
but skipped it for a midnight drive to Myrtle Beach
just to watch the sun rise alone, knowing you couldn’t stay.
You walked your line between wood and fire.
TWO JUNES ON THIS ISLAND
I.
Loose sand, warmer than you’d think at midnight,
slipped between my toes when I walked with her past
wooden houses perched on stilts. She talked
about her freshman year; I tried hard to keep from admitting
I was two years behind her. Thank God for an early mustache.
Springsteen shouted through the arcade doors when we stopped
by the fishing pier Mom said not to visit because loose planks
dangled below it like bats hiding from the sun.
I swear, Mom, we didn’t walk on it, but its shadow
made excellent cover for a real first kiss.
II.
Today I walk the strip alone. Dozens of wooden poles stand
untopped, a dead forest beside the sea. The only music
blasts from a car cruising by a beach access. Glory days.
She winked at me when she left for Georgia,
a peach headed for high school. I waved to her and managed
not to cry till her dad turned toward the mainland.
I’m still proud of that. The arcade drifted away
one salt-crusted machine at a time. It’s a beer cave now,
mildewed air blowing through the door every time
a fisherman heads for the pier with a packed cooler. They’ll return,
skirting loose boards, Igloo full of empties and nothing else.
WHEN I DREAM THERE'S ALWAYS WATER
I might wade a wide shallow pool
resting in silent shade
nestled between thick stone columns
behind an endless library
or a midnight ocean, bordered
by pastel houses, so moon-swollen
that every indigo wave
smashes those candy-colored walls.
Once I was back at the lake where I was baptized.
When the pastor laid me under
my feet slipped free from the mud
and I swam away (I cannot swim awake).
But most often I see a wooded creek
bursting from a hillside spring.
Inside my soul there must be a leak.
POST-STORM BLUES
A carcass in the cul-de-sac:
heavy vultures, lethargic
near their find. Evening winds
spread dead leaves through yards. Don’t watch
the crows visit in the street
or the dark drop like a shroud. I can bring you
sunset silhouettes and still water,
cocoa and chestnuts. In this home
we hum a new song. Discordant old bells
chime outside. We light a fire, cook our supper,
make tomorrow’s plans. Hushed, we still
listen for the roar of a coming flood.