Samara

I wrote Nessy I’d planted tomatoes
and basil and tarragon in the dark
under the whirling maple seeds.

There were maple seeds 
scattered on the slate
inside the screen door 

the next morning. 
                                    What do men want?                             
It has to do with the urge 

to shove their * junk * into the 
dark mystery. They’ll do anything to avoid 
their own duende. It’s like we’re 

supposed to go in there and bring it 
out for them like a coal miner. 
Where do 

you get your vitality? they ask.
From the bituminous alley 
of course

I answer, but they reply “I love the Lord,
but I hate being alone.” Say what? And 
“Jesus is the only                          

God.” Again–wot?
How would you know     
if you’d never entered? 

This morning,
I finally put the worry dolls away
exhausted from two days

of labor 
spread out akimbo on my 
dresser. They looked

like wiped-out
partiers, their dresses and pants with
thread unraveling,

sometimes a tiny painted
face askew. I returned them to 
their woven bag to

sleep it off. I thought of Dracula
for some reason. Now, there’s a man
that knew the dark. Every morning at

sunrise, back into his plot of earth,
similar in size I’m guessing to my
raised garden out back. When he

traveled to England he had to make arrangements
to have the wooden
boxes filled with “mould” 

travel with him. Such was his power 
that all of nature 
convulsed and a terrifying

storm came up
when his ship approached
the shore. Onlookers 

could see through veils of fog
a wind-torn corpse
with drooping head at the boat’s

helm—the captain—hands tied 
to a spoke of the wheel 
with crucifix dangling.

Then an immense dog leapt off the boat
and up into the cliffs. 
Shapeshifter Dracula

absorbed by the night.  
It used to be I’d travel 
and everywhere 

I went I’d case out the nearest rectangle of
sky blue water so that I could swim back
and forth my eyes glued

to the inscrutable bottom, 
and sometimes
the sparkling honeycomb shot through with sun. I felt

like the Count planning 
my vacations, finding the location of the 
requisite blue box. 

I’m not sorry Z. is mad at me, J., and J.,
and T., 
and even D. May their dicks be

merry. If their women 
are willing to hand over
what they’ve worked so hard for. We had

children out of their recreation center! Their
happy hole! 
Bitterness is a kind of fecund soil.

I had to settle for  
inserting Miracle-Gro-inseminated “potting soil” 
into the tomato 

plant indents, b/c
COVID, b/c I can hardly shop for, much less lay
my hands on, manure.

There is the compost heap,
ash and vegetable detritus of my past,
behind the house 

that I have been into with my shovel
but it was dark I wanted 
to beat the rain.

I came back in and texted my current cyber
man, Z., but he brushed me off. 
Replied only to my comment 

about our time zones.
That he, six hours south, 
is to the east of me but to 

the west
of me in time. This means that 
he does not have 9 p.m. twilight in May—which could explain

the whole problem. 
Who knows, he was 
probably smack in the middle of sexting

with somebody he met online.
But Ness loved the story 
of the air full of those tiny muted gold helicopter 

blades whirring over me,
and the warm breeze 
and the wind chimes,

as I planted the tiny strip of garden
between house and driveway.
Z. says he has an inordinate 

interest in pedigree: race
horses, “chocolate stripe” heirloom tomatoes
he grows from seed. He raises 

bantam chickens
with voluptuous
blue feathers. He eats their eggs and oversees

the hatching of the fertilized ones. 
He sends me photos and even videos
of the mother hen feeding 

her babies meal worms that he has 
provided. They’re in a pile
and then she distributes them one morsel at time to  

a different place and somehow signals a chick
to come over and consume it. 
I don’t tell Z.

about my fear of worms, especially the big
earthworms that loll around 
engorged

after a rain. The time my friend
Nancy chased me with one and I ran screaming
down the two hills of my backyard

into my father’s arms near the weeping 
cherry tree (Yo ho! Freud!). Sometimes
he places his chickens in a dark box 

and takes them
around the tri-state area to shows. The only
time Z. uses the word “love” is about these

chickens: I am so glad you love them, 
he writes.
One time a guy somehow got on my Facebook

Messenger. I may have friended him, as my whole
account is crowded 
with people I have no clue

about. 
I opened his message, and there
was a huge glistening erect cock. 

Oh good lord.
I did not sign up for that. The next time I ran
into it by accident, 

having not yet figured out how
to block the guy.   
The second time I stumbled on it, I saw

it was really his—or someone’s—
not really
as preternaturally big as I had thought b/c

it was real—because his
pants were down and I saw his 
checked boxers.  

It filled me with the worst desire, dark and rich
like the garden, like whatever twisted thing
I get into when I imagine—oh help me—

my husband pushing himself into 
that other woman.
Samara, Samara, protect me my God.

 

ξ


Summer Solstice: She Wore “Imitation of Christ”

Stephen, full of grace

 

What does it mean
when the place
            you got married in

burns to the ground? Cheryl asked, at
the same time
sticking her phone in

my face to show
me a structure perfectly, beautifully
on fire. White square wall

at the end 
of a fenced
pasture

and orange flame 
fanning
out on all sides,

Jack-o’-lantern cut-out 
windows black
tarry smoke coming

from the roof, 
rippling it, buckling it.
I was sort of

surprised to 
learn her sister had had
the presence of mind

to take
the picture.
Same time asking

if the horses
were 
            in there. Fireman

said, Nothing we
can do about
it if they

are, and then Donna
ran up and said, They’re
            in the

pasture. Then everybody
had to round them
up and trailer

them over
to Janie’s, a thirty-horse
stable

that had stood
more than twenty stalls 
vacant

for two years, dust
and neck-high weeds and
waiting to be

foreclosed, basically. The insurance
money for the fire
could change

that. One person’s
bad luck, another’s stroke of
good.    

Everybody bustling
around today
to make the

quarantined—and hot—
stallion happy.
“Open the window.”

“Get him
a fan.”
Stephen said

my name 
and stepped out
            of shadow.

                        Ivy climbed
the maple 
            and dappled the

                        streetlight. His wife left town, 
he said, because the 
            university screwed her. 

                        It was November
before last.
            He said

                        he didn’t know
if she’d come
            back, that he hadn’t

                        been to an AA meeting
in a long time. 
            Then “oxycontin,” 

                        “heroin,” “speed,”
“vodka,” in no 
            particular order.

                        Hep C. Stomach
problems. It all 
            started with a little

                        tiny pill, he said—
Darvocet—
            for a severe

                        two-week headache.
A familiar story.
            I believe it.

                        Damn doctors.
I told him 
            Go get

                        yourself locked
up somewhere. He said
            his wife said the same thing,

                        that that was the only
time he’d been able to get clean,
            behind bars. 

                        Stephen was thin,
beautiful as ever.
            Dr. D-for-Death was

                        standing with him.
I’d been jogging 
            in my braids.

                        Today in Thai Essence
a young friend
            who might have

                        been my daughter
and I talked about
            sex. Four Thai

                        waitresses and one
Thai guy
            who seemed to be the owner

                        and/or chef lined
up near the cash register
            and listened. Jean

                        said, My friends
are just going                                                   
            out and losing their

                        virginity
for the sake of it (I said
            nothing about my “regard”

                        for my virginity
at a similar age). Like a girl
            had sex with her prom

                        date, he never contacted
her again, and then
            she just went

                        out and started sleeping
with anyone. This is someone
            who said 

                        she was never going to
do this kind of thing. 
            Jean said, The way

                        I see it is 
sex is like drugs or alcohol.
            If you get

                        pregnant, it ruins
your life, just
            the same. And Holly, her friend,

                        just casual as you
please about having
            sex with her boyfriend.

                        I thought about how
it was kind of necessary
            to trivialize it (they’re texting on 

                        their cell phones all the time,
e.g.) in order to ignore
            what is happening, kind

                        of like people decorating 
nurseries for baby-to-be and
            buying frilly pastel 

                        maternity clothes and “layette”
stuff. Completely ignoring
            the fact

                        the universe is about
to open 
            and emit another

                        human being. Like that
barn with
            its black window holes

                        and the terrifying
red glow that is taking
            everything but

                        that last west-facing wall.
I said, You know
            how you fly to

                        Europe (or anywhere really) and
it takes like
            a week to catch

                        up? I mean your body,
or your spirit, can’t
            get in synch because

                        you went too fast, faster
than the body
            can go? I said 

                        sex is like
that, when you’re a teenager
            and you have

                        no “relationship.” It’s
like an Aston Martin, is that
            what it’s called? Only I called

                        it an “Austin Martin.” I’m sure the 
Thai guy was aching to 
            correct me. 

                        Lamborghini.
Like a Jag. Like you drove
            a VW beetle and then

                        suddenly one of those. This huge
amount of power, and you
            have no idea

                        what to do with it. Were
the cash register contingent agreeing? 
            I remembered

                        our waitress basically did
not speak English.
            I wanted to say to Cheryl

                        that maybe the
burning barn
            was a sign of her

                        immolating marriage, consumed,
or transformed, by its
            own passion—she’d barely

                        known her shy bull-riding
fiancé, met him on a horse-loving 
            dating site—but I didn’t

                        want to stumble
onto talking about
            her sex life. She, I mean Jean,

                        my daughter-like friend, at lunch,
told me something
            awful she learned on

                        on Facebook. Our mutual friend 
from New Hampshire who just 
            left her husband of twenty-five years

                        is going back to Aden 
who she adored 
            in her early twenties. I filled

                        Jean in on the anorexia, skipped
Victoria’s later pregnancy, abortion, 
            the séance led by Jill

                        the psychic after Frank’s suicide, 
where Aden and Victoria 
            “bonded,” Francie, Aden’s

                        wife, throwing
eggs at Victoria’s house and
            yelling curses (well, I told

                        her it was messy but
didn’t get into the 
            terrifying, broken-hearted details, 

                        the considerably older Francie—
how she adored Aden—she
            always arrived to work

                        in the afternoons breezy and full 
of herself from their
            afternoon trysts);

                        did say Aden 
left Victoria to go to Europe, did not 
            communicate while

                        there, and then
when he returned 
            to the States went to Florida 

                        and reunited there
with Francie, who
            came down

                        from Virginia. Meanwhile Victoria 
was half-dead from anorexia, and
            ended up with Dr. Johnson

                        whose presence in her
life so threatened her mother Leslie 
            she thought

                        she saw him 
lecturing to her
            from the TV set—

                        and then the subsequent 
“King of Burma” 
            episode (didn’t recap in detail

                        how Leslie pressed
Victoria to take her to
            a remote airfield in Washington

                        to pick up
“the King of Burma,” who was
            coming to confab

                        with her
about some crucial
            international issue 

                        or other 
in rural Virginia—
            needless to say,

                        the drive back—
without the king—was quiet). So what 
            was on fire? The table 

                        of dumplings
and pot-stickers
            at Thai Essence? The eyes

                        of the incredulous 
maitre d’ (an Aston Martin—
            was there a battery-operated

                        sex-toy overtone
in that
            analogy?). I’d been

                        reading the first-person
narrative of another
            schizophrenic.  

                        The summer had started
like this, she said: Everything
            heightened, beautiful. 

                        Then she heard
the derisive chanting,
            “You will die.” I haven’t

                        done well in summer,
which was reputed to
            be my favorite season. I simply

                        have to tell you
this. I was messing
            around with one of

                        my favorite, but dilapidated, 
“summer” tunics the other night
            and I happened

                        to look at the fashionably rent
and crumpled label.
            “Chance

                        and Coincidence,” it was called (talk
about trivializing 
            your life! “Branding”

                        yourself!). Made me think
of that awful moment
            when I was

                        leafing though
People or something a
            few years ago:

                        “Scarlett Johansson
is wearing ‘Imitation of
            Christ.’” There she stood

                        at some party
or premiere 
            in her frothy white

                        cocktail dress
with the scoop-neck lace bodice
            and fluted silk chiffon 

                        skirt. Stephen used to come                                         
regularly to the 
            Saturday night

                        meeting. Is his absence
the reason I no longer 
            find it exciting? His 

                        beauty was the cool 
kind. And considerable. He’s still
            cool, loaded, coming

                        out of the shadows of that
lush grassy ivy-laced yard tonight
            the way he did. (A “friend’s”

                        house, he said.) His pale green 
almond eyes. His cheek bones,
            one with a slim shiny 

                        football-shaped scar.
Just sittin’ in there shooting
            up and drinking vodka, 

                        he said outright. I smelled 
his breath before he even
            said anything. And I have

                        Hep C, for Christ’s sake, and
there I am
            putting dirt in my veins.

                        Oh, obituary, don’t show
me Stephen. I often                             
            thought of what it would 

                        be like to simply 
lie down, the
            pleasure of simply

                        lying down 
with him—
            for years—

                        he’s that
beautiful. He wore faded
            blue jeans, flat,

                        flapping, paint-splattered
pull-on Keds. Life was
            so much better

                        when I was
sober; it was
            just so peaceful, he said.

                        The barn
went up in
            flames.

                        A man said
in the paper even a discarded
            bottle could 

                        catch the sunlight
and ignite a whole
            field in minutes. 

                        Stephen
slipped, many of my friends
            disappeared. I’m in the Adult

                        Swim Aston Martin
whether I like it
            or not. And my

                        young friend Jean’s cup
overflows with 
            her beauty and 

                        sensuality. Suppose
I had.
            Suppose . . . Stephen 

                        was thin. He could slip
through 
            a slit

                        in the universe. He’s
standing in
            the vestibule. In the

                        night shadow. He told
me his last name
            and I told him

                        mine. We laughed
because no one has a landline
            anymore. We had

                        nothing with 
which to write
            our numbers down.

ξ


Gaslight



I met a man at a twelve-step meeting
and didn’t know much about him.

I dressed him in a nice outfit,
set him prancing on the golf course

behind the hotel where I lived—in limbo—
at the center of the contiguous states.

He rode a golf club like a witch’s broom
while I sat inside watching a Halloween

“Bewitched” marathon on cable. He texted me
about Toto only he spelled it “Tutu” and said

God had my back. Meanwhile,
Samantha changed her handsome

warlock former boyfriend George
into a raven. Miffed at Darrin,

Endora changed herself into a trick-or-
treating child princess and Darrin

into a werewolf; and Aunt Clara
messed up everything. She gave Samantha

and Darrin clothes for a dinner party that subsequently
vaporized.
    You wouldn’t believe the

clothes I dressed that man in. The black
wool dress coat I saw from across the room

that turned out to be a flannel shirt. Who
needs to be hoodwinked when you can do it

for yourself? My mother rode a broomstick
through my childhood and for years

after her death. She slapped me so fast
I never saw it coming. It became

an erotic rhythm. After I left home,
she dropped money on me periodically

from a great height—which I Fed-Exed
to friends immediately. We were happy

watching “Bewitched” on our black-and-white
TV every Tuesday at 8 on the hard-cushioned

sofa. Wide-eyed Samantha—in perfect black
winged eyeliner and ruffled apron—

exerted the power that was rightfully hers. 
I think K. wanted me but would have liked 

to change me—by that I mean “save” me.
He thought he was my god. I could tell 

by the way he ran around saying 
“God has you right where you’re supposed 

to be.” I got a frisson of fear when I heard 
that. My mother kept a bead on me. 

True gaslighter, she told me I was 
a narcissist. Even now, she’s a searchlight 

chasing me on the golf course with a hairbrush, 
finding me and pinning me 

to the trap, the velvety green, the verge.

 

ξ

Dana Roeser’s fourth book, All Transparent Things Need Thundershirts, won the Wilder Prize at Two Sylvias Press and was published in 2019. Her earlier books won the Juniper Prize and Morse Prize (twice). Recent poems and translations appeared, or are forthcoming, in The Laurel Review, Barrow Street, The Florida Review, North American Review, The Indianapolis Review, Green Mountains Review, and Poetry International Online (PI Online). For more information, please see www.danaroeser.com.