Poetry: Jeff Weddle

​Six Poems by Jeff Weddle

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​Snake Killing
 
The snake in the goldfish pool 
was longer than I was tall. 
My great uncle, 
a quiet man, who revealed himself 
that day
as a hater of snakes, found a hoe
and pulled the creature 
out of the black water
then hacked it to pieces 
as I stood with my sister and grandmother
watching it happen. 
Then we all sat down to eat our watermelon 
just like we had planned.
My grandmother and my great uncle 
salted theirs, like always, 
so my sister and I did the same. 
It was as natural as killing a snake
and just as satisfying. 
After the watermelon, my great uncle
got rid of the body 
and my sister and I ran off to play.
Who would have thought, sixty years later 
and that whole world gone, 
the damned thing’s ghost 
would still be with me, begging mercy?
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Quiet Morning
 
Even the faraway grave 
under the blue sky, 
the cotton clouds, 
wants to tell its stories. 
What lines remained 
that we could cherish now? 
Silly question. 
Silence wins in spreading, 
so Sylvia said her piece. 
I say what I can, but it’s hard. 
Graves are everywhere, 
like the blue sky, the clouds. 
I see the world 
through my kitchen window
and sip my coffee
as words hide, vanish,
listened for 
like lost children
in the bright, rushing day.


What I Did When It Mattered
 
An accessory to ICE, I drink my coffee 
and eat my cereal, 
worry about my old dog 
who walks closer to death every day.
I worry about my children 
and the tasks I should be doing for work 
but let slide 
as the world gets hotter 
and people I don’t know are arrested
and taken to prisons 
built just for them. 
An accessory to genocide in Gaza, 
I consider which shirt to wear today, 
which pair of pants. 
I worry that I’m gaining weight 
and resolve to get back on my diet. 
Maybe I won’t eat a donut 
at the poetry group tonight, 
but I probably will. 
An accessory to the end of democracy,
I run errands 
to the post office and grocery store, 
drink another cup of coffee, 
worry about my blood pressure 
and my heart. 
It was sweltering yesterday 
and the world’s light faded 
a little faster than the day before.
It’s worse today. 
My old dog won’t be with us much longer 
and I’m very sad about that. 
My kids will cry when it’s time. 
Jesus, I’m getting fat again. 
What can I do?

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In America We Love 
 
We love everyone, especially Jesus. 
We love, love Jesus and angels 
and God the father. We love abundance 
and the righteous. 
We love prosperity and the Bible 
and we hate women. 
Shit. Did I say that out loud? 
I mean we love women, the vessels of life. 
It’s the poor we hate, 
except for the poor 
who vote to give the rich what they want. 
Those poor are patriots 
and worthy of prayer, even on national TV. 
In America, eight dollars and public prayers 
will get you a decent cup of coffee 
and a flood 
of Republican votes. (Forget Matthew 6:6-7. 
What did Jesus know, anyway?) 
In America we are all about vengeance. 
We take an eye for any eye, 
no questions asked. 
Better yet, let’s take two. (I am your 
retribution, sayeth our current Lord. 
Screw Matthew 5:38-40. What a pussy 
Jesus was.) 
We love football here, by God, 
and people who use the right bathrooms. 
We love little babies and little girls 
who give birth too young to even 
understand how babies are made. 
We love people who got here on time,
not anyone who needs to get in now. 
(Matthew 25: 31-40? Fuck. Jesus must have 
been a radical leftist. Everyone knows 
immigrants are poisoning the blood 
of our country.) 
In America we hate books 
and love everyone 
who thinks the way we do 
as long as they are white like us 
and speak English like us 
and can afford to buy a spot in heaven. 
We are as hard as the rock of ages. 
Glory be to us. 
A-fucking-men, brother. A-fucking-men.


Survival of the Fittest 
 
I woke up thirsty at 3:00 a.m. 
and reached for the beer by my bed 
and drank deep. 
Something solid poured out 
and I felt it go down my throat. 
The place was lousy with bugs 
but there was nothing to do about it
once you swallowed one
except forget about it and move on.
Hell, I didn’t even gag
and the next day I was hungover 
but still alive. 
Swallowing a bug was nasty, 
but that was 45 years ago
and I’m still roaring. 
Can’t say the same for the bug.


​The Poet and His Wife
 
The great poet is forever handsome 
in the photograph 
which appears on the dust jackets of his books. 
His thick, wavy hair and trim athleticism 
catch the eye.
 
It is easy to imagine him 
sitting in a comfortable room with lush furnishings, 
to picture him typing with great purpose,
a satisfied smile on his wise, beautiful face.
 
It’s easy to imagine that he writes 
on a vintage Remington
because he loves the satisfying feel
of the keys beneath his fingers,
the sound of letters being drilled into paper.
 
We assume words appear just as he wishes, 
while his lovely, caring, oversexed wife 
waits nearby in silk lingerie.
 
But the author photo was taken long ago
and today the great poet is fat and balding. 
 
Sometimes he neglects to bathe 
and often smells. 
 
Just now, he’s sitting in a dull apartment 
writing bad poems in a spiral notebook.
Occasionally he gets lucky, 
and brilliant words arrive,
but these days, not so much.
 
Often, his poems are, at best, self-plagiarism.
 
His tired wife of twenty years
sits on the old couch in the living room.
 
The television is on, 
but all she can think of
is the boy her mother 
told her to marry. 
 
He became assistant manager 
at Joe’s Discount Meats 
and is doing quite well. 
 
She saw him on the street recently 
with his wife and children. 
The wife was pretty enough, 
but the children, all three, 
were hideous.
 
Maybe, she thought, 
the little whore had nasty genes 
or a long-term affair with a troll.
 
Stranger things have happened. 
 
To be fair, the assistant manager 
would never be called handsome, 
but he is plain in a normal way, 
certainly not ugly enough 
to account for the repulsive kids. 
 
Plain in a normal way
would be plenty good enough
for the poet’s wife
 
who sits, trance like, 
in her awful reverie,
 
as the poet polishes the turd
he’s been writing. 
 
“I’m finished,” he finally yells
and celebrates with
a loud fart. 
 
She glances his way. Sighs. 
 
For the love of God, 
how she wishes 
that were true.
 

Bio

Jeff Weddle grew up in Prestonsburg, a small town in the hill country of Eastern Kentucky. He has worked as a public library director, disc jockey, newspaper reporter, Tae Kwon Do teacher, and fry cook, among other things. His first book, Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press (University Press of Mississippi, 2007), won the Eudora Welty Prize and helped inspire Wayne Ewing's documentary, The Outsiders of New Orleans: Loujon Press (Wayne Ewing Films, 2007), for which Weddle served as associate producer. His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in dozens of venues, including the anthologies Mondo Barbie (St. Martin, 1993) and Stovepiper Book One (Stovepiper Books, 1994). Weddle is the author of a poetry collection, Betray the Invisible (OEOCO, 2010), a limited-edition, fine press book handcrafted by master book artist Mary Ann Sampson, and a chapbook of Barbie poems, Not Another Blonde Joke (Implosion Press, 1991). Jeff Weddle is an associate professor in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama. (less)J

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