Three poems by Erik Porter
She Teaches Me Palm Reading
She plays a movie鈥攖he best, she says,
the first Batman鈥攚ith the dark knight
as that rugged heartthrob. I鈥檝e never seen
it, I say, but I鈥檓 ready. And that鈥檚 what first
dates are for, she says鈥攏ew things, fun things.
We sit on her basement couch and watch, and
our arms touch near the elbow, just a graze鈥
but she can tell, I鈥檓 sure鈥攊t must be obvious鈥
that I鈥檓 uncomfortable, tense鈥攖hat I鈥檓 treading
new ground. It has to be funny to her鈥攁 little
bit cute, endearing I hope鈥攖hat all she did
was lean close enough for our arms to touch.
But I鈥檝e got to move, I think. I can鈥檛 stay like
this鈥攁nd so I move in tiny shuffles, and I try
to be discreet; I move far enough to end our touch,
and I stay close enough to hope it happens again.
I rest my hands on the quilt that covers us鈥攁 gift,
she said, from a friend. The squares, cotton and
linen, green and brown, are connected by little knots
of yarn I roll through my fingers. A small Christmas
tree stands on the end table; red, yellow, blue lights
wrap the green鈥攊t鈥檚 November though, not even
Thanksgiving, and so I nudge her with my arm to get
her attention, and I point at it鈥攃ool-like, and with
my thumb鈥擨 love Christmas, she whispers, and so I
always keep the tree up. A wall calendar鈥斺渦nlikely animal
friends鈥濃攈angs on the wall. It鈥檚 a donkey and goat this
month, and they鈥檙e smiling like people, front legs touching.
A mannequin head, transparent, its features rounded
and soft, reflects the light of the TV like a prism. It looks
like a watch guard, the head, protecting The Lion King,
NCIS, Gilmore Girls. She readjusts and moves closer so we
touch again, our arms now pressed at the shoulder. I let it
happen this time, and I stay relaxed, calm. Maybe
that head modeled hats at a department store, or she
stanza break鈥
bought it to practice drawing its contours, or it was
a thrift store jewel she found years ago. She rotates and
our knees touch. I turn a little too, trying to return the
favor鈥攂ut this is as much as I鈥檒l do鈥攊t will be enough
鈥攚e can watch like this for a while. Erik, she says,
hear me out, and she places her hand on my wrist, turns
my palm up, and clasps her hand onto mine, knitting our
fingers together. I feel the pressure between our conjoined
hands; I feel her move her fingers across the backs of mine.
And I wish I was a fortune teller鈥攇ive me your hand, I鈥檇
say鈥擨鈥檇 hold her hand in both of mine, and I鈥檇 run my
thumbs across her palm. I鈥檇 feel her lifeline and every
crease鈥擨鈥檇 take my time, noting each line, its path, how
it connects to the others鈥攁nd I鈥檇 see her future, ours.鈥
Shakespeare鈥檚 Birds
Nay, I鈥檒l have a starling shall be taught to speak
nothing but 鈥楳ortimer,鈥檃nd give it him
To keep his anger still in motion.
鈥擧arry Percy, King Henry IV, Part I (1.3.223-224)
A flock of starlings bursts from its roost
in a lone, leafless tree; gentle hills roll
through the prairie around it. The birds
curve and jab, swirl and pulse, tumble
and soar across the yellows and blues
of the evening sky. They loop and twirl
like the smooth spirals of a gymnast鈥檚
ribbon. I long to be closer鈥攃lose enough
to see the fading sun shimmer on their
feathers and see their green and purple
shine鈥攁nd close enough to listen for
the music that spurs their motion. But I
want to be farther away too, so I can see
their shapes, the ones they make together,
with curves and waves and lines that
roll and shift like the air they fly through.
Murmuration, they call their display, a way these
birds find a place to stay for the night. Scientists
have words for their shapes鈥擟alculus terms
鈥攈yperboloids, paraboloids, doesntmatteroids
that the birds shift into as they fly. And maybe it
does start as a murmur, their movement, just a
whisper, a subtle change in direction from one
that drifts through the flock like a current until
the entire group has changed shape and direction.鈥
It Won鈥檛 Be Long Until the Sun Sets
We lean into the wicker backs of our patio
chairs, my mother and I鈥攎y socked feet
skim the pavers beneath me, keeping time
as we watch dusk turn to evening. We eat
while we sit鈥攐ur summer evening meal:
breaded chicken, Perdue, because she says
they鈥檙e less artificial; tater tots, Schwan鈥檚, so
we have something to buy from the salesman
in his truck; raspberries and blueberries, Driscoll鈥檚,
because she鈥檚 sure they taste better. And they do
鈥攖he berries, the freezer food鈥攚hen we鈥檙e
outside, and we listen to Kupper鈥檚 dog bark at
cars, and we see the Storsved kids across the street,
playing whiffle ball in their empty lot鈥攁nd
the Nibbes are out too鈥擱od and Maxine鈥攁nd they
wave as they walk. They look good, too鈥攐ur plates
鈥攚ith reds and blues and oranges and yellows鈥
like our yard, and the sky鈥攍ike the bright blue
of Mom鈥檚 Hyacinth鈥攊n the bee corner, as she calls
it, where the skinny blooms of these flowers extend
into the air. And the pink of young apples on our tree
鈥攚e鈥檒l be picking soon, she says, with fall around
the corner, and frost. And the yellow tips of zucchini
buds in her garden, with the cucumbers and grape
tomatoes鈥攁nd marigolds鈥攖he rabbits don鈥檛 like
them, she says, and they brighten the garden up.
The sun glows in the west before it sets. It鈥檚 gorgeous,
Mom says, and so calm tonight鈥攊t is鈥攖he color,
the air, the evening breeze that moves the grass,
the leaves, the hairs on my arms鈥攁nd the temperature
鈥攊t鈥檚 comfortable鈥攁 neighborhood comfort鈥攁
sun鈥檚-going-down comfort of a summer prairie dusk.
We sit, and we watch, and we feel as the navy of
evening begins to hide our backyard colors.
Erik Porter
Erik graduated from Concordia College in Moorhead, Minn., in May of 2020. He enjoys playing tennis, reading, writing, and making music.