Oregon
Literary
Review
Vol. 3, No. 1

Contents

Home

Allan Peterson
THREE POEMS


ALL THIS ORDINARY

 

I see pine flies, parasites

search among the three-strawed needles

of Jack Pines, potter wasps

fashioning vessels in the hand-thrown

concrete of the curtain wall.

I began to think evening was greying

to nonexistence when the deck light

started up from a last ray and then the whole

prow of the inboard, the issues of the West

which retire, and the East which arise,

then the hocused beginnings hyped by light,

then by shadow.

I see the four horse-stars in the great

square of Pegasus just after scorch streaks

as the west visits the infirmary below the waves.

The miracle of all this ordinary is like my first day

in California, everyone entitled to oranges.

 

 

 

DESPERATE CONDITIONS

 

At extremes, like living in the Arctic,

building long-lasting houses with breath,

one may eventually have to fight with one’s body

and strangers will watch.

When she reached the hospital she was already

disappearing. Much of her face had unpacked,

but the weight and memories remained in Alabama.

New food would not become her.

She could seldom be found in the room wearing

her name. There was another woman there

who looked like her but did not know those

claiming to know her,

the ones who came each time her lights went flat.

Finally no one could remake her

from what she’d cried into her sheets,

and her family didn’t return to see

whoever it was she looked like the night she gave up

and entered the icy green trailing of the dials.

 

 

 

FULL OF BEGINNINGS

 

I am full of beginnings, the best parts

since endings so often go awry.

This is philosophy, the thrill of starts

and where they go.

For instance as much as I touch Frances,

it is not enough. Like white mice

pressing their pleasure centers, I am writing

in the shadow of my hand

and the dream I keep beginning

has the fractals of snowflakes

catching on everything, the whole thing slowing

so we have time to tell nervous stories

at night when the hot logs talk among themselves.

Not once upon, but Monday, when sunlight

through water on hydrilla is the Northern Lights

airing its curtains and everything beginning

hovers expectantly above.