Poker After Funeral: A Poem by Hayden Bergman
This poem was originally published online in Gravel Magazine.
Grandma flicked a deck of fifty-two
from a Shreveport casino past her
thumb, mimicking the noises in the dark.
All day we worked deep-sixing grandpa,
and now the day was gone,
so we sat in the dark
to play a game of five-card,
hoping that his soul was somewhere else, not stuck
inside the shallow box of lacquered cedar.
Uncle cut the deck and grandma dealt,
growling deuces wild as she snapped
her wrist. The bet went to my uncle,
check then to my second cousin, check.
And then it came to me check. Grandma’s
eyebrows lifted from her eyes. Three
dollars she said and pushed twelve quarters
to the center of the table. The bet
went to my uncle fold then to my second
cousin fold and then to me, call. I threw
three ones on the table. The family
and lookers-on raised their heads and voices.
Grandpa would have been howling
to her right, you ain’t got nothin’!
so I told her, you ain’t got nothin’.
We both drew another card, hoping
we would dig up luck, some glossy gift
buried face down in the deck. Neither
of us did. We played the cards that we were dealt.
Cards to chest she said, you first and so
I slapped mine on the table: triple aces.
Grandpa would have told her, give up
while you can — but I didn’t say that.
She laughed, exhaled, and showed her hand:
full house: three tens, one king, a wild deuce to pair.
She leaned forward, pulled the pot to her side
of the table. She threw her arms around the cash
and change, and straightened up her back.
Author’s Note: This poem was published in 2019 in Gravel Magazine — I can’t find their website anywhere on the web, either through their old URL or some new one — a casualty of COVID, I guess, the fate of many of our favorite magazines. I remember being so grateful for this publication, not in the least because a fellow wrote a sweet note to me about the poem — also, much of my first (and forthcoming) manuscript is informed by the narrative present in this poem.
Say: A Poem by Jamie O’Halloran
This poem was originally published online in Southern Ocean Review.
Say it is the furnace clicking,
when the house twips
animal in its walls
Say it is the neighbor
shouting obscenities at his wife;
the epithets, the fence tumbling
honeysuckle you share
Say it is the dog’s nails
needing to be clipped, only you
haven’t a dog
but you listen anyway
to the clatter of dust
coating the hardwood floor
Author’s Note: My poem “Say” was published in Southern Ocean Review in January 1997. SOR was an online literary magazine out of New Zealand that closed shop (and disappeared from the Web) after its 50th issue in 2009. It was doubly exciting to have my first on-line and international publication in one go. “Say” is one of the only poems I’ve written without punctuation, and since the late ’90s, I use initial caps for all lines. Other than those difference in presentation, my voice is in the sound and imagery of the poem.