HEADER PHOTO: Saul and the Witch of Endor, Benjamin West, 1777

poetry, aug 24, anniversary issue

I: Our Origin Stories: What We Were Told

Men awoke half dressed
to booms of kettle drums.
The snow was falling, again.
They shut the doors.

Horses whinnied. Children screamed.
Blood splattered on the avenues.
The witches were in town.
Men shut the doors tighter.

Mother wrapped me in quilts,
tucked me under the floorboards.
Father prayed. Mother drew her sword.
The doors fell down.

This is what I learned
from my new mother
years after she found me
with the name tag: Ian Sebastian.

My mother was silent about my history,

and beat me with a wooden spoon

when I asked. She couldn’t be my mother.

She must be a witch. She named me Thomas Holmes.

II: Our Early Years: What We Lost

She took me to the church with the spire,

like it was drowning and raising its hand

to be saved. If I raised my hand

she’d tie it to the stove’s grating.

I couldn’t pray for salvation,

the mother who bore me, and fell away.

After the witches, we forsook church.
I learned to fish on a rowboat.
If I caught one, I’d raise my hand.
She’d help me haul it aboard
to prepare it. We smoked them.
We hung their bones in the window.

III: Our Winter Nights: What We Drank

During cold evenings, we drank claret
for warmth and rearranged the bones
to match the season’s constellations.
We made hope when money dwindled
and townsfolk were coughing to death.

When I was sick, my mother poured me grog

until I passed out. She went to the streets

and returned wealthy and with a wobble in her step.

She had the prettiest dresses. When I coughed,

she wrapped them around my head.

IV: Our Last Days: What Was Said

I never saw my alleged mother

or smelled or heard her after my birth,

or so I’m told. And told she was an artist

who didn’t even sell a frame. They say

I never saw my first mother
after I was born, but once
in a self-portrait from oils
signed in the lower corner. I say

my mother’s name, Gail Way.

AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
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For over twenty years, Tom Holmes is the founding editor and curator of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics. Holmes is also the author of five full-length collections of poetry, including The Book of Incurable Dreams (Xavier Review Press) and The Cave, which won The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award for 2013, as well as four chapbooks. He teaches at Nashville State Community College (Clarksville). His writings about wine, poetry book reviews, and poetry can be found at his blog, The Line Break. Follow him on Twitter: @TheLineBreak

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TWO ADOPTION STORIES FROM THE BLACK PLAGUE: A KAYFABE POEM

TWO ADOPTION STORIES FROM THE BLACK PLAGUE: A KAYFABE POEM

I: Our Origin Stories: What We Were Told

My mother was silent about my history,

and beat me with a wooden spoon

when I asked. She couldn’t be my mother.

She must be a witch. She named me Thomas Holmes.

II: Our Early Years: What We Lost

She took me to the church with the spire,

like it was drowning and raising its hand

to be saved. If I raised my hand

she’d tie it to the stove’s grating.

I couldn’t pray for salvation,

the mother who bore me, and fell away.

After the witches, we forsook church. I learned to fish on a rowboat. If I caught one, I’d raise my hand. She’d help me haul it aboard to prepare it. We smoked them. We hung their bones in the window.

III: Our Winter Nights: What We Drank

During cold evenings, we drank claret for warmth and rearranged the bones to match the season’s constellations. We made hope when money dwindled and townsfolk were coughing to death.

When I was sick, my mother poured me grog

until I passed out. She went to the streets

and returned wealthy and with a wobble in her step.

She had the prettiest dresses. When I coughed,

she wrapped them around my head.

IV: Our Last Days: What Was Said

I never saw my alleged mother

or smelled or heard her after my birth,

or so I’m told. And told she was an artist

who didn’t even sell a frame. They say

I never saw my first mother after I was born, but once in a self-portrait from oils signed in the lower corner. I say

my mother’s name, Gail Way.

AUTHOR BIOAUTHOR BIOAUTHOR BIOAUTHOR BIO

I: Our Origin Stories: What We Were Told

My mother was silent about my history,

and beat me with a wooden spoon

when I asked. She couldn’t be my mother.

She must be a witch. She named me Thomas Holmes.

II: Our Early Years: What We Lost

She took me to the church with the spire, like it was drowning and raising its hand

to be saved. If I raised my hand she’d tie it to the stove’s grating.

I couldn’t pray for salvation, the mother who bore me, and fell away.

After the witches, we forsook church. I learned to fish on a rowboat. If I caught one, I’d raise my hand. She’d help me haul it aboard to prepare it. We smoked them. We hung their bones in the window.

III: Our Winter Nights: What We Drank

During cold evenings, we drank claret for warmth and rearranged the bones to match the season’s constellations. We made hope when money dwindled and townsfolk were coughing to death.

When I was sick, my mother poured me grog until I passed out. She went to the streets and returned wealthy and with a wobble in her step. She had the prettiest dresses. When I coughed, she wrapped them around my head.

IV: Our Last Days: What Was Said

I never saw my alleged mother

or smelled or heard her after my birth,

or so I’m told. And told she was an artist who didn’t even sell a frame. They say

I never saw my first mother after I was born, but once in a self-portrait from oils signed in the lower corner. I say

my mother’s name, Gail Way.

AUTHOR BIOAUTHOR BIOAUTHOR BIOAUTHOR BIO

After the witches, we forsook church.
I learned to fish on a rowboat.
If I caught one, I’d raise my hand.
She’d help me haul it aboard
to prepare it. We smoked them.
We hung their bones in the window.

During cold evenings, we drank claret
for warmth and rearranged the bones
to match the season’s constellations.
We made hope when money dwindled
and townsfolk were coughing to death.

I never saw my first mother
after I was born, but once
in a self-portrait from oils
signed in the lower corner. I say

AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO

She took me to the church with the spire,
like it was drowning and raising its hand

to be saved. If I raised my hand
she’d tie it to the stove’s grating.

I couldn’t pray for salvation,
the mother who bore me, and fell away.

After the witches, we forsook church.
I learned to fish on a rowboat.
If I caught one, I’d raise my hand.
She’d help me haul it aboard
to prepare it. We smoked them.
We hung their bones in the window.

During cold evenings, we drank claret
for warmth and rearranged the bones
to match the season’s constellations.
We made hope when money dwindled
and townsfolk were coughing to death.

When I was sick, my mother poured me grog
until I passed out. She went to the streets
and returned wealthy and with a wobble in her step.
She had the prettiest dresses. When I coughed,
she wrapped them around my head.

or so I’m told. And told she was an artist
who didn’t even sell a frame. They say

I never saw my first mother
after I was born, but once
in a self-portrait from oils
signed in the lower corner. I say

AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO