Marianne Szlyk

Deer on Douglass Street

It is the last hour before heat takes over,

driving away all but bugs and a few crows.

The deer, a young buck, waits to cross Douglass Street.

I hold my breath.  The cool breeze stops. He crosses

halfway, then looks at me.  No one is driving

down this street of toy-sized houses and no trees,

morning cut through for Lyft drivers and locals.

He stands on the empty street as if nothing

could take him down.  Everyone must stop for him

before he stalks into the park, then bounds past

overgrown tennis courts and a gazebo  

where young children listen to Bible stories.  

They might turn and watch as he grazes on grass,

as he flees this pocket-sized spot for some park

where does and fawns browse beneath oak trees.

I pray that this deer finds this spacious place, but 

wonder if he can be safe, crossing North Lane, 

rushing stream of cars and trucks that will not stop.  

 

The Last Hour of Les Harvey, Lead Guitarist of Stone the Crows

Some say puddles remained

on the festival stage.

Wales is a rainy place,

its trees lush and green, no-

where for gaunt crows to perch.

Yet one tree was dying.

A crow perched on a branch

to watch humans scurry

around the prone body,

new clothes soaked in foul water. 

Maybe the crow had been

perching on a dumpster,

diving for soggy chips.

It was not watching.  It

just happened to be there.

Trevor Thompson notes

the venue was indoors.

And it was a clear night.

You could walk home, drunk from

Maggie Bell’s bracing voice.

A short man, black hair slicked

back unfashionably,

was seen strutting on stage

as Les reached for the mic.

Perhaps the black-haired man

flew away. Perhaps he

blended into the crowd,

feigning the same fluster

that everyone else felt

or munching on prawn crisps.

No one ever saw him again.

Note: In 1972, Les Harvey, lead guitarist of British band Stone the Crows, was electrocuted on stage.  His band continued for a while after his death.  According to vocalist Maggie Bell, Peter Green, formerly of Fleetwood Mac, briefly joined the group but left because he feared that it would become “too famous” (qtd. In Kielty).  No sources mention the man with slicked-back hair.

 

Last Time at the Willow

That night I walked alone.

He didn’t like jazz, this

music he told me was

no music, not even

this klezmer clarinet

winding through narrow streets,

climbing over thick walls

with drums like longed-for rain.

On that stage, white men

played sitar.  Their notes did

not sting while I sat, no

tears, no one beside me.

These songs were the river

I would not swim.  Instead,

I sat on shore, waiting

for a path to emerge.

Even when the Willow 

closed, the songs stayed with me.

Later I did not walk

alone.  Another man

walked with me.  We listened

to clarinet and cymbal

trickling out over rocks,

feet gliding over sound.