ronald baatz | the last april

Poetry Dispatch No. 105| September 28, 2006

THE LAST APRIL by Ronald Baatz

i put myself in her and i remained there
and for a moment all i could hear was a bird
outside the open window letting out with
a solitary cry. it was a sunday morning and
the last day in april, and for the most part
for me it had been a sleepless night after
a very lengthy dinner, a wild lovemaking
session and a walk downstairs alone
to take a peek at the end of a ball game
while sipping cognac. it was Sunday morning,
as i said before, and i remained still,
actually listening closely to the bird,
wondering exactly what kind of bird it was,
suspecting that she knew i was wondering
what kind of bird it was. but
i also could not believe the quiet thrill
of lying there inside of her.
my penis was painfully rigid, and i
listened to the bird, the one of
a sunday morning, the morning of the last
day, the day that came at the final
moments of april. it wasn’t
the crow outside, this much
i knew. the crow had its own sound
which i could not confuse with
another kind of sound.
it drove her out of her mind
with pleasure, my not moving.
we have this strong and silent
rapport which manifests itself
sometimes in such unhurried moments.
especially on a day
which was the last day,
of an april which was
the last april
of all known aprils.

from The Wormwood Review, #144, 1997

a spark plug
held tight in my father’s old fist
as he approaches the shed

ah! to be drunk and to lasso an alien
from the land
of short skirts

the landlord
swimming naked in the pond
forgets his battle with cancer

from a chapbook (undated), at herring cove, by Ronald Baatz

FAREWELL by Ronald Baatz

a light frosting of snow
this morning. threw some
apples out for the deer, not
from the kindness of my heart,
but because I didn’t care
to eat them myself. actually
i haven’t seen a deer out back
since late autumn, some
three weeks ago, a gnawing
sensation of depression
in my gut. don’t want to
push off for work this morning.
i feel like a child being
sent to school, and this
child does not want to go there.
this child wants nothing more
than just to remain home
and play with his tin castle
and tiny knights. to
this day I can remember
the last day I did play
with them. the sad
realization that
i was getting too old.
i can still feel it.
this I can never see
happening with poetry,
since the writing
of poetry has
always been, for me,
the simple rehearsal
of writing
that last note
of farewell,
on my
deathbed.

from The Wormwood Review, #144, 1997