Sandra McPherson
Sandra McPherson had two new collections published in 2022: Speech Crush (Gunpowder Press) and The 5150 Poems (Nine Mile Books). They are her 21st & 22nd books. New poems are forthcoming in The Georgia Review and Willow Springs. "Pointed Question" appears in Speech Crush (Gunpowder Press, Santa Barbara, 2022) https://gunpowderpress.com/book/speech-crush/.
Gunsight
“has anyone in your family experienced gun violence?” Yes ✘ No
She has, for whom the night means bird-sleep—For whom the trees are board-and-cares—For whom the cat’s on an errand and the slow van’s to outrun—
My daughter, who’s been shot. An imageOf her left back shoulder shows the circleWhere the pellet entered through her tank-top strap:
It’s red with rings of blackberry and thin pink.It’s smeared where she touches back to it.It’s flower-wide with scratched and browning petals.
A stung cosmos counted shots. Pictured them as bee-bright spots.Pox or foxing. Spider-holes. Shockwaves swallowing.Norteño motor gunning past the torpid bins of trash.
Night is a game-wild park, a dark game, a black park.Gold signs, reflective arrows, crossroads, turn up Lemon Hill.Her voice calls in and does not soften the expletives it’s soaked in.
A flashlight in authority approaches from the dark—“See, it’s on my fingers still. They drew blood.”Street light reflects in a lampwork bead of blood.
A blade, sheathed in her skin, keeps her a little safe.A scapula, she used to study. Anatomy was one of her pursuits.She keeps on Vista, riding south, in engine-room pursuit.
She arrives beneath the porchlight of a friend.Gold buttermilk pours over her. She washes her hurt shirt in it.She’ll let me pay for a fresh blue cotton tee—
The sheriff wants this one, before she explains nudity.She hears what those who had her in their sights are wearing:Female, dark hair, white shirt. Male, black shirt, red shorts.
Male, black shirt, white trim. Male, black pants, red shoes.(Cat: sable with ermine boots.) Male, dark hair, black shoes.The driver’s jumping out, approaches, is detained.
And right away: Now, Mom, don’t you have new poems for me to post?No, my wheel of a day-blue girl, it’s summer—There are no poems in print in summer.
No complacent pastorals, incomplete honorable odes.So long as you’re cycling danger, as long as a single spark of youChills from fear, as long as streets dissolve to lanes and alleys,
I’ll listen for birds asleep, then I’ll begin to knit a poemOver your skin. I can’t say how safe. You may expose itTo fresh air. You have a flare for good decisions. You still respect
Things made from letters on a license plate. I’ll get one doneBecause you’ll decipher it, and because they’re watchingFor my quick girl riding through a gunsight.
She has, for whom the night means bird-sleep—For whom the trees are board-and-cares—For whom the cat’s on an errand and the slow van’s to outrun—
My daughter, who’s been shot. An imageOf her left back shoulder shows the circleWhere the pellet entered through her tank-top strap:
It’s red with rings of blackberry and thin pink.It’s smeared where she touches back to it.It’s flower-wide with scratched and browning petals.
A stung cosmos counted shots. Pictured them as bee-bright spots.Pox or foxing. Spider-holes. Shockwaves swallowing.Norteño motor gunning past the torpid bins of trash.
Night is a game-wild park, a dark game, a black park.Gold signs, reflective arrows, crossroads, turn up Lemon Hill.Her voice calls in and does not soften the expletives it’s soaked in.
A flashlight in authority approaches from the dark—“See, it’s on my fingers still. They drew blood.”Street light reflects in a lampwork bead of blood.
A blade, sheathed in her skin, keeps her a little safe.A scapula, she used to study. Anatomy was one of her pursuits.She keeps on Vista, riding south, in engine-room pursuit.
She arrives beneath the porchlight of a friend.Gold buttermilk pours over her. She washes her hurt shirt in it.She’ll let me pay for a fresh blue cotton tee—
The sheriff wants this one, before she explains nudity.She hears what those who had her in their sights are wearing:Female, dark hair, white shirt. Male, black shirt, red shorts.
Male, black shirt, white trim. Male, black pants, red shoes.(Cat: sable with ermine boots.) Male, dark hair, black shoes.The driver’s jumping out, approaches, is detained.
And right away: Now, Mom, don’t you have new poems for me to post?No, my wheel of a day-blue girl, it’s summer—There are no poems in print in summer.
No complacent pastorals, incomplete honorable odes.So long as you’re cycling danger, as long as a single spark of youChills from fear, as long as streets dissolve to lanes and alleys,
I’ll listen for birds asleep, then I’ll begin to knit a poemOver your skin. I can’t say how safe. You may expose itTo fresh air. You have a flare for good decisions. You still respect
Things made from letters on a license plate. I’ll get one doneBecause you’ll decipher it, and because they’re watchingFor my quick girl riding through a gunsight.
Playing with a Bee Fly
It hovered at my eyebrowand as I moved my head
back it breezed across my nose,but I kept the same range. I thrust my bangs forwardbut didn’t touch the insect—didn’t see it again—.
What I witnessed was a bee flychanging its mind, and its commute.
Perhaps hungering for a grasshopper egg,not stinging but munching in mind,
its mouth between the ends of a song,its straight dart
between foraging and fascination.
back it breezed across my nose,but I kept the same range. I thrust my bangs forwardbut didn’t touch the insect—didn’t see it again—.
What I witnessed was a bee flychanging its mind, and its commute.
Perhaps hungering for a grasshopper egg,not stinging but munching in mind,
its mouth between the ends of a song,its straight dart
between foraging and fascination.
Pointed Question
Do you have hope of heaven? My brother taunts meas the sun comes out, as the windshieldwipers dry their blades above this worldlyspattered road. I can’t say—I believein likely sylphish beings toeing the airwith pointe shoes. I hope you sense them too.
The power is out, intersections pass us by.Almost my life passed. Will our velocitybother that toppled tree blocking the lane ahead,traffic-wind rustling through its face-down canopy?His query feels chilly, makes me shiver,even by this sanctuary, where redwingscrash from their heavenly high life, flashsignals. I’m not driving, I don’t drive,but right at the edge of bliss, I brake.
The power is out, intersections pass us by.Almost my life passed. Will our velocitybother that toppled tree blocking the lane ahead,traffic-wind rustling through its face-down canopy?His query feels chilly, makes me shiver,even by this sanctuary, where redwingscrash from their heavenly high life, flashsignals. I’m not driving, I don’t drive,but right at the edge of bliss, I brake.
