Tobi Alfier(3 poems)
Excursion to the Palos Verdes Cliffs
We climbed down to the tidepools.
Sand and spider webs undisturbed
on splintered, hand-hewn steps,
the bannister not much better.
An unwelcoming journey steep
and uneven, down to the gift
of light and life below.
You had the backpack across
your shoulders, one hand in mine.
I couldn’t look up to the island
across the bay, or the gliding clouds,
or reach the cliff-side flowers
gathered by those with better
balance than I.
A kayak canted across the breach
from tidepool to open water
gently rocking. Clearly
unused for countable time,
waiting for its owners to claim it.
The boat held no interest for us.
It was the starfish, anemones,
every color magnified a thousand-fold.
Silent and smooth water. The polished
dark of rounded stones, glimmer
of tiny fish in the pond shared by just us two.
Far up the hill an occasional rumble
of trucks. And in the mellowing light
of dusk, a single, forever, kiss.
Loving Emily
I went to her house.
You were lounged on her couch
in a jacket I didn’t know you owned,
feet up on her shabby table,
reading in silence.
I said let’s call Emily,
swing by her man’s house
and all meet for dinner.
You said something
I don’t recall, and I went
for the phone. On the floor,
four perfect stapled pages,
lined like your beloved
yellow pads. The heading said:
“The Week of Loving Emily”
Four pages of poems I didn’t know,
sent off to journals obscure to me,
the last two to the army. I knew
Emily’s man, a caber tossing
roughneck of a bloke, did not
write these. I knew they were yours.
Emily answered quite chirpy,
got less and less so as she explained
that no, it would not be a good
idea, her man was playing music
with friends, did not want company—
I was sad, got more and more down
as she spoke. I knew you were
not coming home with me.
Emily had a Scottish accent,
you did as well. I just left,
I don’t know how I sounded,
just broken hearted.
A Slice of Whisperwinter
I watch the low clouds as they smolder
a sky the color of opaled satin.
Bare limbs, branches gnarled
like ancient almswomen saying
rosaries, etch my frosted window.
Somewhere the sun casts a weak afternoon
light on quiet snow, the flakes gentle
and silent as they anoint the shoulders
of men rushing home, black jackets
and black gloves, each with a briefcase
they’ll profess to open later, once
warmth and whisky has made
them human. They have kissed wives
who followed the same route earlier
from shops— for chickens and turnips,
a spot of cake. They have wrestled
their sons, hugged their daughters,
eyed the clock to call out evening duties
as a conductor calls the arrival of trains.
And still I am alone. Five months
given to drought. A woman rare,
scented of roses and spice, a laugh
tender as the early wash of daylight.
She would have loved this snow,
and loved me in it. She wore mittens,
not gloves, one hand to wrap around
an ancient city streetlamp, the other
to reach for me. Now I’m just a vague
remembrance to her, like the stranger
she passed this morning in a half-open
doorway, measuring the weather with
open palms and steaming tea. Chimney
smoke inscribes the air, stains the needles
and bullets of each different snowflake
a rotten mahogany. Strange how something
so lovely can be called so violent. Thus
is the story of my salvation—outside,
the gaining snow takes everything it wants.
Tobi Alfier is a multiple Pushcart nominee and multiple Best of the Net nominee. Her full-length collection “Somewhere, Anywhere, Doesn’t Matter Where” was published by Kelsay Books. “Slices of Alice & Other Character Studies” was published by Cholla Needles Press. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).