Ruth Polleys 4 poems: 8/19/2010 Still Life with Diet Coke and Goggles On the plastic white porch table, circled by plastic white porch chairs, there’ll be a blue and green ceramic plate, the Chilmark kiln’s signature salt-speckle glaze. On the plate, remains of a pre-beach feast: spindly stems, once heavy handfuls of purple grapes; two peach pits—one still frilled with threads of flesh, another sucked clean, dry; crumpled white paper napkins—deep pink bleeding stains—and cherry pits spit daintily, or not, into folds; one too-soft nectarine. Next to the plate: a glass carafe of once-iced tea, an inch or two at most, lemon wheels tanning in the warming bath; an army of stoplight-red plastic cups, some stacked, some not; one silver can of Diet Coke shimmering angled sun; and swim goggles, black with white straps, to the left—left behind.
Ruth Polleys 4 poems: 8/19/2010 Water Log Day 1: I drink 32 ounces of water, 2 cups of tea, 1 Petrified Forest cake. Day 2: I drink 48 ounces of water, 1 vat of coffee, 2 bathtubs of anger and a mandate to eat alphabetically: artichoke, basil, chorizo, Doritos. Day 3: I absorb 64 ounces of water, seven broken-winged buffalos, and the inside-out tendency to pretend I matter to a guy in a tricked out ice cream truck who doesn't give a damn about signs that say No Turn On Tomato. Shadows observe laws of commotion and carbonation. Day 4: I tread the water-less lake of expectation’s cold, airless hunger and wonder whether the myth of 8 glasses a day is a ploy brought on by the salt industry. I test illogical fiction: fava beans and Ovaltine. Day 5: I clink and sip and wallow in the foamy head of When. Day 6: I dream of French-speaking toast with a strawberry mouth, freerange bacon, eggs with feet, and offer saffron-scented palms to origami cranes, refrain from fearing hearing Too bad about the soufflé. Yes, I see how you think you drink the sun. Kaleidoscopes chime eggplant tunes. Day 7: Fast—no water, no dandelions, no assumption, no red velvet moon. No way to know how this antipasto may end, if my secret garden ungreens. Day 8: 32 ounces of Start Over tea. One lucent, supplicating pear.
Ruth Polleys 4 poems: 8/19/2010 The Lobster Reel “and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster—” —Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Day overflows to evening, to lighting citronella votives in the dark, first one with a difficult wick, finally finally finally lit, glowing with the others as picnic table places are set and napkins secure under rocks against breeze. One by one, platters take their places—criss-crossed cobs, Mom's potato salad, this morning’s tomatos and mild greens— and small glass bowls of melted butter, pools of twirling flame. One for each: a red red lobster, silver cracker and slender pick, on an oversized novelty plate. Me, I start with claws, tenderest and sweetest. Others squish legs with their teeth. Ooh, green stuff, a friend recoils. I wash mine off in lukewarm water, distrust the slimy goo. I shut my eyes to sing-song cutlery, to staccato laughter and spiel. I bite a knob of knuckle. Seashore splashes my mouth. Another table, other cackle and plates— my very first time. A fall-bright day in Nantucket, an orange banded sky. I had named mine Claricé, and blanched at the boiling pot’s screams. Later, Maine, Southport—Robinson's Wharf. Richard's Dad gently taught me how to crack claws, how to twist the body, push the tail out with my thumb. The green is called tomalley—or delicious lobster liver. The red, he said— this was a girl—the tiny, grainy roe. In dark, I see with fingers—slippery more than green. I hold my lobster to the light: translucent shell. Antennae seem to twitch a bit. Shall I make her do-si-do?
Ruth Polleys 4 poems: 8/19/2010 On page 158 of Martha Stewart Living gold-leaf plates are positioned on a crisp white tablecloth, precisely one inch from the edge. Silver patterns turn just so, so the filigree flows up, pointing toward the centerpiece (pinecones, tapers, English apricot roses, expertly arranged). When wine pours, it’s spill-less, and children exhibit their well-trained manners, and bread rises, perfectly crumbless, as the turkey slips in picturesque slices from the bone and carrots dream of no better container than this heirloom platter, or the bisque, this elegant tureen, both crafted of finest Italian porcelain. The grace, calmly delivered, speaks of love and humble gratitude as the table, ringed by clasping hands, spreads its bounty, invites nourishment, nods, perfect pats of butter joy— the doorbell rings (will someone please get it?) everyday plates too close together, to hide the (what was that?) stain, the squeezing in of an unexpected guest— a cousin abandoned by her boyfriend (we knew he was trouble) as the squash sits in its water waiting to be mashed, as potatoes turn gray and the turkey sits in its fat (eyed by the cat) while the rolls burn on the bottom (why must we always burn the rolls?) The silverware mostly matches. We move the slightly dying chrysanthemum since there’s no room for butter, margarine, Promise and Smart Balance spread (in their bright yellow plastic tubs).
Ruth Polleys 4 poems: 8/19/2010 And since Rich hacked the turkey, it’s in shreds and bite-sized bits, which is fine for gravy-and-turkey-slop-on-toast, but looks sad, hacked and sad, on Thanksgiving. Wait! Cranberry sauce— it’s still in the can. So we burp it out, a perfect cylinder, with ridges for easy slicing in pre-fab perfect circles. Grace? someone mumbles through mouthfuls of meat, as the apple juice spills (that’s why we keep plastic on the table) when someone spins a limerick. Laughter—and clinks of ice-diluted wine. Pass the Pepperidge Farm stuffing. Peas lose their sheen. No one eats the salad. Pies for dinner. Coffee. The good china cups.