Poems by Liz Ahl
Shooting at the Red Star
State fair, end of summer, distant
calliope churning, heady midway
incense, spicy sausages hissing
in greasy nests of peppers and onions,
vats of oil bubbling corndogs and fries –
and of course the slightly sweet smell
of all the livestock, their feed and feces.
I’m finally stopped by a carny
with just the right pitch:
shoot out the half-dollar-size red star
at the center of a paper target.
The kid pours ten pellets from a tube
into the slender barrel and strings the target
to the back of the booth.
It takes a couple of shots to find
how the sights don’t line up, a couple more
to move closer to the red center that draws me in.
Too late, seven or eight shots in,
it comes clear that the trick is to start
from the outside, at those impossible five points
and work one’s way inward.
I’ve got the kind of gambler’s heart,
or simple compulsion enough
to plunk down another two bucks,
convinced I could do it this time.
I could sit here at this booth, shooting
at starpoints until all the rides
shudder and squeak to a stop
and the midway flickers to sleep.
Something about focusing
on the red star, tight squint of sightline,
threaded along on dumb hope,
hunched over, ten more shots,
aiming a kind of desire,
only ten more shots, just ten more.
Good Friday
At first I imagine the classical guitar
floating just at the edge of audible
is coming from another office, but,
following it, sniffing it out like a dog
on the heels of something delicious,
to the dormer window, I hone in
on its source three floors below:
a young man on a bench, alone, embracing
the instrument, rocking, focused, tuned in,
tossing notes – plucked and strummed –
against the brick of the college building,
against the brick walkways, and, finally,
finding me up here, looking, bent over
in the dormer, pulling open the window
for the first time since October.
In the sill, the dry husks of wasps
sleep in a nest of paint flakes and dust.
Wind sings through bare branches,
rattles the screen and whistles through.
The snow is sinking into itself, into mud,
like something rotting. A yellow dog
makes tracks across the one remaining white expanse.
Then, the howling brass of harmonica –
someone has joined the guitarist on the bench
and the duet gets bluesy.
Their music
mingles with the end-of-March wind-whistle,
with the occasional percussive squawk of the crow.
I want to fold this poem into an airplane,
send it into the bright breeze of noon’s blue sky,
let it ride the drafts with the rising chords.
Liz Ahl is assistant professor of English and chair of the
English department at PSU, where she teaches poetry
and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in
various literary magazines, including Prairie Schooner,
Crab Orchard Review, The American Voice, The Formalist,
Southern Poetry Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, 5AM,
Sundog and The Women’s Review of Books.
