Tag Archives: the long view just keeps treading water

“Summer of the Epidemic” by James Doyle

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In the late 1940’s, polio
scowled around the public pools
with its face in shadow, melodrama
of my mother’s warnings

slinking towards tragedy. Another kid
every weekend smiled bravely
through the Sunday centerfolds
from an iron lung. Mother hung

those photos in my bedroom, overlapped
them with a painting
of the Sacred Heart. Instead of a machine,
the open chest

of Jesus,
blood and all, pumped away
for me. Okay, but
steam rose

off the streets all summer
and wasn’t Galilee even hotter
than the Bronx? Why did Jesus
walk on water

when He could have splashed around in it?
Why were the kids
with polio always grinning in the newspapers?
So I snuck

into the neighborhood pool. Floated
and paddled and kicked. Held my head
under as long as I could. Just now
thinking about coming up.

James Doyle,
The Long View Just Keeps Treading Water
Accents Publishing

“It’s Still the Same Old Story” by James Doyle

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A sailor props his bicycle
against a tree and swims out
into the only ocean within arms’
reach. The exact lady for him
is starting out from the opposite
shore. They will meet by chance
in the middle, in the place called
Neptune’s Gold Teeth, where sunlight
crusts in the mouths of sharks.
They will hold hands and tread
water together. The waves will lift
or lower them 50 feet at a time.
Just when they are getting to know
each other, they will drown. Or
the sharks will go off their diets
and on an eating binge. But
the couple, of course, can’t see
the future, so they keep going,
long calcium strokes towards
each other. And maybe they
never meet, just miss as so
often happens in mid-ocean. Salt
bleaches their hair, water shrinks
them down to size. They each
emerge on the opposite shore,
lie around on the sand a few
years like driftwood, open a curio
shop. They think to themselves
how rich their lives are, how
nothing is missing. Then one day
each walks into the other’s shop.

“Oxygen” by James Doyle

Long View

How it crosses
the Mississippi, swells
with water, rubs
itself spare
on the Rockies, lean
and young to colonize
empty space, stops
short in the great deserts
of the Southwest, splatters
primary color
across the heat scrim
that wavers
from sky to land,
sidles down dry
creek beds like a crest
of transparent water,
fills the drifting
bones with pores,
chases its tail
over the sand, curves
dunes into the shapes
of sidewinders, bakes
fallen shards of cactus
flat so they scatter
like lizards, browns
the sun for touch
so we can gulp
air down, gorge
our lungs and curl
around ourselves
to hold it in
for as many centuries
as it takes.

James Doyle,
The Long View Just Keeps Treading Water
Accents Publishing

“In the Woods” by James Doyle

Long ViewThe house wriggled gingerbread and cinnamon.
When the bad witch’s mascara ran down

the walls, she turned into the good witch.
“What kind of names are Hansel and Gretel?”

she sang, as she patted the children down
for unseemly bulges and led them by the hand

through the security shield. “Dick and Jane
were here yesterday, couldn’t wait to follow

their trail of after-dinner mints home. And all
you have are crumbs? Well, let’s sit down

to a good, healthy meal right now.” Underneath
the mascara, the wallpaper crawled with clowns.

Their blood-red noses blinked on and off.
“It’s one big circus in here all the time.”

When the witch cracked her whip, a miniature
car somersaulted across the living room. “Get in,

get in.” Dick and Jane, Barbie and Ken, Romeo
and Juliet, Stella and Stanley. The car was solid

with hundreds of others, compacted into a block
for recycling. “Won’t it be hilarious when

the door opens and they all tumble out at once?”
The witch draped her best smile over the saliva

to answer the front bell. Helen and Paris
needing the directions to Troy. She swept them

right in under her wing. A trail of apple cores
behind them as far back as the beginning.

James Doyle,
The Long View Just Keeps Treading Water
Accents Publishing

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“the Seals” by James Doyle

Long View.                                             God made
them obsessively, thousands
after thousands,

on the First Day to break the boredom
of chaos. Now all the seals can see
is a nation of themselves

with humans as little stick figures droning
the edges in a constant flutter.
The seals call night

and day around themselves and the only
answer is the workers’ rasp
of their own voices

honing the air into seal-shaped crevices
where they draw blanketfuls
of fish over themselves

and nap to the certainty of God
bright on their sliding skins
like a sleek robe.

James Doyle,
The Long View Just Keeps Treading Water
Accents Publishing

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