» Lowell Jaeger

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Lowell Jaeger:

As founding editor of Many Voices Press, Lowell Jaeger compiled Poems Across the Big Sky, an anthology of Montana poets, and New Poets of the American West, an anthology of poets from 11 Western states. His third collection of poems, Suddenly Out of a Long Sleep (Arctos Press) was published in 2009 and was a finalist for the Paterson Award. His fourth collection, WE, (Main Street Rag Press) was published in 2010. He is the recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Montana Arts Council and winner of the Grolier Poetry Peace Prize. Most recently Jaeger was awarded the Montana Governor’s Humanities Award for his work in promoting thoughtful civic discourse.

Grandma’s Last Christmas

Grandma still lit candles on her Christmas tree

instead of stringing lights, and Dad said we’d better

help her take the damn thing down before

the old homestead burned to the ground.

Easter Sunday after church, we drove over

and found Grandma in a chair pulled close

to the soaps flickering on her new TV.

He done it, she said. I seen him.

She pointed at the black and white screen,

her house coat buttoned askew,

her thick ankles crushing her fuzzy slippers sideways.

That’s him, she said. He’s the one.

We raked buckets of dried needles, scraped lumps

of candle wax off the floor. Dad unscrewed the trunk

from its stand and heaved what was left

out the backdoor, trailing more needles and wax

and all us kids sweeping up behind him.

It’s just a show, Dad shouted from across the room.

It’s pretend. Grandma pulled her specks

lower on her nose and smoldered.

I know what I seen with my own eyes,

she said. We each had to hug Grandma

before we could go though she never hugged back.

The room felt empty where the tree had stood.

Dad bought a round of ice cream cones

at the drive-in on our way home, and we savored

in silence, letting the cold melt on our tongues. Dad stared

ahead, shuddered and mumbled. We didn’t dare ask what.

Things Got Worse

Things got worse before they got better

after the mill shut for good

a week before Thanksgiving. Dad

was up early with no place to go.

He’d sit with his coffee and stare

straight ahead like a blind man.

We’d come home from school and find him

still there. Then it snowed and snowed;

the roads drifted closed, trees snapped

curbside and lay broken like wounded soldiers.

Dad shouldered his shovel door-to-door

asking for work clearing drives and walks.

A nearly grown neighbor boy did the same.

We’d report to Dad whenever we spotted the boy

slinging snow near streets Dad claimed

as his own. He don’t need it bad as I do,

Dad said. He’d pull on his boots and march

off to see what’s what and set the boy right.

A week before Christmas Dad took a job

delivering bottle gas, and he let us ride along

to see the Christmas trim on big houses

across town. Or we’d slip and slide

county backroads delivering to farms.

A big man in coveralls loaned us an ax

and we cut a Christmas tree from his woodlot.

Not much of a tree. Dad lashed it

to the grille of the truck and pieces flew off

as we sped along, our snow boots caked

with manure, our noses pinched

against outhouse smells in the heat of the cab.

At least we got food on the table, Dad said

whenever Mom looked like she felt sorry.

Or he’d say, There’s hungry people in this world

who get on with a lot less. Which meant

we should eat what Mom dished and not complain.

Strangers

A classmate came knocking

one hot summer afternoon.

He’d hiked clear across town

in a trench coat and sandals

and nothing more. These were days

of Jimmy and Janis, make love

not war. We did crazy things.

Mom let him in; I wasn’t home.

Mom worried strangers might be Jesus

in disguise, testing her. I guess

Jesus did crazy things too.

He said Mom had served him

milk and cookies. We laughed

and made fun of her. Neither of us

meant it; we were young and hopped-up

on mock and ridicule.

Mom said they’d had a nice visit.

He’d talked about dropping out, Mom said,

and she hoped he wouldn’t do that.

He’s a bright boy, Mom said.

His big brown eyes just melted her

heart, she said. And his smile,

so gentle and full of forgiveness.

LSD

We tied twisted plastic wrappers

to the rafters. Lit them one by one,

awed by the dripping flames hissing

and sizzling in the dirt. Dozen guys,

half as many chicks, huddled

in a picnic shelter, Iron Butterfly

drumming a war dance on the eight-track.

The molten globs of plastic shrieked

when they let go and whistled

like bombs. Last year of high school,

first frost on the meadow, full moon.

Faces flashed bright in the flames,

then black. Faces flashed

bright in the flames, then black.

Across the world an orange robe

doused in gasoline set itself ablaze

on a busy intersection, broad daylight.

One of us made noise like gun-fire.

Don’t do that, one of the girls said.

Something moved in the shadows,

something in the dark crept closer.

Napalm them jungle niggers, someone said.

We laughed and dared the dangerous

big world out there

to dare us back.

Action

Action speaks louder than words, Lenny

reminded us. We’d just walked home to the dorm

from a rally on the commons,

spitting bullets at Nixon and his war.

We huddled and passed a pipe. Lit candles and aimed

a black-light at Hendrix ghosting on the wall.

Don’t you just want to trash something?

Right-on, Ted said and raised a clenched fist:

Smash the state! Right-on, Man. The rest of us

agreed. It’s revolution, Man. Love Generation rules.

We passed the pipe again and chased it

with a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Larry

went teary-eyed. Think of it, he said,

it’s up to us. We’re like what’s-his-name Jefferson,

Abe Lincoln, Man. We’re . . . like

making history, Man. Let’s do it, Lenny

shouted and jumped up on his chair. Do it, Man!

“Something’s happening here”—we sang along

with the stereo. We’re like a movement, Man. We’re like . . .

a tidal wave, Ted said. We’re like . . . .

Someone had sent ‘round a few crumbs of hashish

smoldering on a tinfoil wrapper. We’re like . . .

but he coughed and coughed and couldn’t force

another word. You’re like wasted, Man, Larry said.

It’s cosmic, Man, Lenny said. Don’t you see?

It’s all atoms. Everything. All made up of atoms.

All we need is . . . like . . . unlocking that atom, Man.

Ted snored. Larry rolled himself up in a rug,

knocking an empty, spinning. The needle on the LP blipped

on the last groove over and over. Ticking like a bomb.

No, ticking like a countdown. No, ticking like a clock.

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