Poetry by Nick Bertelson
Man of the House
A shadow. A fist. Wire threaded
through itself. That was our
father. Saturdays in a Lay-Z-Boy.
Six beers deep. A gun. A gasp
Deathbed confessions. That was
our father. He had rebar bones,
a John Wayne jaw, tattoos like
like little oil slicks. He was the
man on the neighborhood watch sign.
The hand on the do-not-touch sign.
A folded newspaper. A Slim Jim.
A shoehorn. A tire iron. That
was our father. He complained
about doors. The wrong ones
were always opened or always
closed. His love was a coffee can
stuffed with cash, some model planes,
a tire strung from a strong limb.
He worked his body into a question,
his fists were defunct pistons, his heart
a crushed corsage. That was our father.
He did it for a pension, a car payment,
another zero on a paystub. He did it
so we’d know he loved us
only when it was too late.
Farmstead in Fragments
A dog’s grave in
Bluestem & dropseed
Circus of hydrangeas
Divvied up
Erstwhile endeavors
Forgotten in tool drawers
Grease gun matchbook
Half a pair of pliers
In the windbreak
Jibboom-like augers
Knurled camshaft sprockets
Lorsban in illegal jugs
Milkweed festooned in monarchs
Natiform oak trunk
Oblong & barkless
Peonies where the porch was
Quinidine sulfate
Renderings of property lines
Scrap metal like bad art
Train of kittens derailing
Udder-balm jar full of nails
V of geese struggling south
Windsong in shiplap
X-ACTO knife sans blade
Youth-sized overalls with the
Zipper rusted shut
