“TREES OF THE WORLD” AND OTHER POEMS
Photo provided by Nikki Wallschlaeger.
Babies on the Other Side
Precious little angels, all of them.
Carefully they consider their next
spirit of entry, and are well aware
the avenue might close and they
have to seek another one. People
are sentient with their own dreams,
first lingua they master is variance.
High seas of ursa family jambalaya,
impatience is not even a wrinkle here.
Little babies already born look at me
and smile. They know I'm a favorable
portal. Who they’ve chosen is a secret.
Not that it always works out or that it’s
their mistake if they suffer unjustifiably.
that’s on the parents. That’s on society.
Trees of the World
I have fallen off the flat earth map of man.
I’m convinced willow trees are the entrance.
She has never wept a day in her life for love.
People are not trees. We are not built for it.
The best we have to offer is our sour breath,
which they are wise enough to make use of.
Symbiotic relationships are the normal sway
of things in every category of existence be it
Intellectual, emotional, or biological creativity.
What about the parasitical aspect of conjoined
beings. I don’t know. It happens. It hurts a lot.
Not even trees are free of chaotic antagonism.
These hills out here are so ancient the trees
have become the ocean’s calling card and if
you’re real quiet you can hear their folk song.
132 species of maple trees are found in the
US, Europe, Africa, and Asia. Respirations of
entanglement. Somewhere I am a happy ant,
a catfish in a cenote, your clambake revenue.
The water is hot. I am bacteria in their crown.
I'm invigorated by you and I love my obstinacy.
Conversation with Sylvia
Sylvia, the birds are mad at you because you’re a cat.
You’re their sworn enemy and you enjoy being a killer,
you love being their villain. I see you Sylvia your eyes
finish nothing, ingots of gold in an unobtainable mine,
genetic pride in your walk, nonchalant calculation that
infuriates and thrills me. You kill for no fucking reason
other than the pleasure of it. You cruel wasteful queen.
Sentry robins chirp the alarm from the electrical wires,
swallows show up for frontline action to swoop down
on you. Just once I wish for their victory of boxing your
ears and teaching you a lesson but Sylvia, you’re busy;
aswoon in your falsetto back strokes. They keep diving,
swooping, alarm bell, alarm bell. You’re perfectly awful.
What have you done to earn revenge as I fill up the food
bowl with chintzy factory crap. You’re my beloved friend.
You can’t help yourself. So vital and beautiful. You, a cat.
Hyacinths in Walmart
They don't care where they are.
A middle-aged man stops to smell them. They smell so good, he purrs. Should we get one, he says. His bedraggled consort affirms his request. She's the one pushing the sacred shopping cart for their sacrosanct merchandise.
The hyacinths are next to the checkout aisles and across from the liquor room. Flowers, booze, and the habit of making money to spend money. Basic society assumes flowers are stupid because they're attractive. Push the pay button at the self-checkout so Jesus can walk through the automatic doors after another long death.
Everyone is aware of the hyacinths even if they're not aware of the hyacinths. These flowers, hardy and beautiful, raise their caterwauls of scented demands. Buy them, says Walmart with the usual authority, bring them to grandmother's dining room table with the extra leaves put in for company. Hello, my name is Hyacinth. I secrete sweetness until I crumple.
I forgot to get the good conditioner with castor oil and black cumin seed. I forgot to get the strong tea I like to sip in the late afternoon. I smoked several American spirits out of habit instead of pleasure on the drive home. But I did find a pair of summery pants to juggle my tulips. I am a specimen of botanical endurance.
Who Were You Blues
Thinking of a way
to say I know
I think u know it too
Allow me to grow these apples and sing
of what I know about you
My body knows this memory
as my mind tries to keep up
Who are you boy—
scared of God
there's only one way to find out
Allow me to pick these apples and sing
of this honey crisp complaint
Thinking of a way
to say you knew
when it’s already far too late
Who were you boy—
man in his crypt
so septic over the phone
Was it just the beat of life
warning me on what
I've long outgrown
Nikki Wallschlaeger is the author of the full-length collections Houses (Horseless Press, 2015) and Crawlspace (Bloof Books, 2017) as well as the graphic book I Hate Telling You How I Really Feel (Bloof Books, 2019). Her third collection, Waterbaby, is out from Copper Canyon Press. Her next book, Hold Your Own, was published by Copper Canyon Press in May 2024. She was a Visiting Associate Professor of Poetry at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop from Spring 2021 to Spring 2022.