Inman Majors
First Bike Ride
Memory is dusk declining,
the moment in a darkened
theatre
before the screen is lit.
Memory is strange
infinity,
the rolling stasis of the
rolling bike,
my father's breath and
hard shoe-soles behind—
my young father, my
strong father,
work shoes slapping the
road
and this is the day,
my father with his hand
on the seat,
and in the soft and
strange dusk
which is settling like an
easy winter
in front of our house
my father running fast in
his hard shoes,
his breath behind, his
shoes,
and the birthday bike,
the mid-March night
and nothing bad has ever
happened
and whatever bad might
happen
is not the end
—and my young father's
hand has gone
the shoes have gone
the bike with a wobbly
rhythm of its own.
Queen
By definition
birddogs should be able
to fly.
Perhaps that's how Queen
evades me.
I can't find the puppies
I know she had.
She travels at night,
makes quick, cursory
visits
to the dog house during
the day.
She's too fast.
I've tried to follow.
I spend my days on
stakeout,
wearing childhood
like a fake moustache.
When I'm older
I'll probably not love
dogs.
I mean love them.
I'll forget my parents—
forget the memory of my
parents.
Did I sleep outside most
nights?
I remember our yard
perfectly,
our dark brick house
with the blue shutters,
my window upstairs so
high
I am amazed I live there.
Bus Stops
Before we get Steven to
sing on the bus,
we have walked in fog
cold and asleep,
past apparitions of
houses fading, blending
into trees unseen. Water
without color,
from a forgotten rain or
a future snow,
runs along the curb.
Huddled talking,
quiet, throats raw still
with morning.
When our fourth glides
down the hill
—appears from the fog—we
have a game.
Hard passes hurt purple
hands,
gloves fall out of
pockets onto the court
—we kick them out of the
way.
Blocked, the ball skims
on the grass spraying dew.
Contested call. Get it
then. You get it.
Unseen, the bus groans to
a stop at the curb.
Rush for gym bags,
down-jacket jostle,
kicking at heels in
front.
Albert opens the door—whooosshhh—
We walk up and past, heat
palpable, thick,
green vinyl seats cold.
Window fog cleared by
hand.
Half a mile down the road
the Dunns look poorer in
the cold, colder.
Steven Stone,
hyperactive, shivers his shoulders,
tries to coax Donny Dunn
into boxing his ears.
All the pants at this bus
stop are too short,
all the haircuts wrong.
Albert greets them:
Hey there Donny, Chick,
what say Democrat
—Steven, you sit up here
with me buddy.
Chick Dunn dumps his
brothers at the front,
they look less poor split
up,
and sits in the back with
us.
It ain't even cold,
he smiles,
then screams at Donny to
sit down and quit whining.
The bus starts again.
Soon we will all be warm.
Wet shoe tracks will
steam in the aisle.
Too soon we'll get Steven
to sing Delta Dawn.
His older brother Dave,
small, will look nervously
from front to back, and
laugh nervously with us.
Albert's eyes in the big
rearview won't smile.
Inman Majors's poetry has appeared in the Antioch Review,
Crazyhorse, Laurel Review, and elsewhere. He is the
author of two novels, Wonderdog (St. Martins Press 2004) and
Swimming in Sky (SMU Press 2000). He currently teaches
fiction writing at James Madison University.