Our Town Becomes a Number
8 fell while rolling 14-pound balls at 10
white pins. The deaf still weep for 4,
who were tossing 6-inch bags through
6-inch holes.
Sirens screamed. Phones buzzed alarm
for 60,000 to shelter in place. Police
streamed in, lights flashing — found
1 white car, 1
AR10-style rifle.
The medical examiner worked
all night to identify the 18 dead.
7 types of specialists patched
the flesh and bone of 13 survivors.
1 congressman reversed his stand
on assault weapons.
34 senators did not.
Over 350 law officers from 9
jurisdictions joined the manhunt.
After 48 hours, it ended in a parking lot
where 60 empty box trailers waited
to haul trash. In 1 was 1 body,
1 .308 bullet.
It was the 10th month of the year.
1,000 mourners packed the basilica.
200 more huddled outside in blankets.
Bend down your 3rd and 4th fingers,
to sign, I love you.
March Mud Season Rap
Pickup Truck: a rugged vehicle used
for hauling large amounts of driver.
—Onion Book of Knowledge, 2012
Oh, he was angry. I’d photographed his truck,
hell, that was luck. He drove up on his
high horse, plucked out both
the barricades that blocked the muddy road,
snuck through and dug
deep ruts, dug
three-foot-wide-tire ruts.
Caught him at it — I was mad —
was snap-snapping what was happening,
‘cause he cared not about getting caught,
no not — no not, not, not.
Don’t photograph my truck.
You’d supposed I’d stole his soul; hey
man, your truck is in a pho-to. Just go.
Want me to put it on my Face-Book, bro?
Five tons of truck on that dirt road.
Don’t you photograph my truck.
He was using his out-side voice.
It was his horse-power against
my attitude
coming at ‘im like
a bitch-dog who bites.
Don’t photograph my truck, lady.
Aw, I don’t wanna be like this;
turn it sweet, turn it nice:
Oh, I won’t, I’m all done —
‘cause I’m not gonna see you
on this road again —
am I, son.
Click here to read Alice Haines on the origins of the poems.
Alice Haines:
Our Town Becomes a Number
This poem came during the week after the Lewiston massacre (I live in Auburn, the sister city). Of three pages, I peeled down to short images associated with numbers. It was hard to give up all the anecdotes and experiences but I realized they could have their own poems. Making it dry and understated captured the horror and sadness, disbelief and waste. Bowling and corn-hole became disorienting measurements I often elaborated and then removed or returned with a one-word change. For example: I was tempted to include that the shelter-in-place orders ended just in time for first day of hunting season.
The hint at the congressman’s anguish coupled with his peers’ lack of response, became a turn that was essential but didn’t seem to make it a political piece. I was tempted to include that the death of 19 placed us 1st in U.S.A. massacres that year. That would have tilted it to political.
I took poetic license with the perpetrator’s suicide. I know now he shot himself in the head but still not what he used. In the poem, the bullet is the type for his assault rifle, which might not have stayed near his body in the container.
I was affected by a news photo of a row of deaf mourners. Their arms defiantly raised, they were all making the sign for, “I love you”. They “speak” in the last verse, where numbers turn into loving action, connection and hope.
March Mud Season Rap
In Maine we have five seasons: in early to mid-spring many dirt roads are thickly muddy, hence mud season. Some can become impassable or require towing. Ruts become a job for public works to remedy, which is why they post the road and put up barriers. Our road has become a short-cut and though some vehicles turn around, some drivers get out and move the barrier, go around it (digging up the roadside), or even run through the wooden saw-horses.
I had been listening to some rapped poetry by high school students and was intrigued by adding rhythm beyond iambic 2-step. I noticed they often used the same or similar words as percussion elements. I found that using body postures and gestures helped me find words and phrases that fit. As you read, try creating off-beats by emphasizing within the clusters of assonant words. For example: HE cared NOT about GETting CAUGHT, no NOT—no NOT, NOT, NOT. I notice that the wavering, sliding, bumpiness fits with taking a ride on a slick, rutted road.
I had also recently read some of Wanda Coleman’s work; she could be pretty offensive but a great wordsmith and model of freedom. I was embarrassed that I gave this particular truck driver such a hard time; but if Wanda could portray a bitch, why not me?
An old white lady rapping on a young white man has to be funny, it was fun to write anyway and it’s fun to read or perform aloud. Who knew my Brooklyn teen roots were still alive.
Image by Sean Foster on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Alice Haines is a Maine poet whose poems have been published/are forthcoming, in The Healing Muse, Off the Coast, NNE Review, Touchstone Literary Magazine, Relief, Pine Row, Does It Have Pockets, and MWPA’s Deep Waters column. A retired physician, she volunteers at a free clinic and enjoys native plants, birding and tracking.
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