Oops, The Night that Nothing Happened, again

Oops, I emailed/posted this too soon, just spent a couple more hours working on this.  If you like poetry, you may want to read this one.  If you don't care, and have already read the other one, skip it.  The story is the same, I worked on the language, which is part of what poetry is.  (Also worked on the formatting so I hope it comes out better!)

The Night that Nothing Happened
 
Jean proposed the idea.  Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, sunny.  Laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan?  We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail.  Simple. 
She'd read about it somewhere.  We'd brag about it later.  We'd tell tales

to our grandchildren.  We'd do it on the way back, too.  We drove on, told stories
to each other.  In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,
Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles.  Next gas 85 miles.   Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.

Sang with the wind whistling at the open windows:  I've been working on the railroad
and Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east
of Pocatello—we decided to stop.  It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town
120 miles to the next gas.  A hamburger at Mabel's Diner, a bowl of chili.  Then

it was time to test the idea.  At the jail-house door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other.  Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted?  We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.

But one of us asked.  Probably she did.  The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled.  Looked us over.  We were twenty,
slender, had curves.  Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts.  Big

and soft.  We were alone with the Sheriff.  He loomed, particularly male,
large and strong.  No chaperon, no witness.  I looked at the door,
took a step back.  Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in

for the night."  We nodded.  Two cells, two beds.  One big key.
We went in; the doors clanked shut.  He sat at his desk.  We sat on our cots
and looked at him.  Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling.  Said
he was leaving.  Turned off the light

and left us alone.  Shadows of iron bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, a sliver of moon
sinking.  Perhaps Jean was actually calm.  She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car.  Still free.  Maybe I spoke too, pretending

to be having fun.  But even if I spoke, even if I smiled, I huddled
scared in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
The stripes shifted; the segmented sky darkened.  The moon intersected
each bar, pressed and stretched dim shadows on the floor.  I watched

bats flicker across a sky splashed with more stars than I'd ever seen.
Tried to pick out the dipper among them, looked in vain for Orion.  Lay awake
and listened to the catch of my own quiet breath.  Don't let me have to stay
here again, I whispered to the stars, long after Jean's breathing slowed. 

Not ever.  In the morning, the sheriff returned
and unlocked the cells.  The outer door opened to an expanse
of Wyoming sunshine.  At Mabel's, we bought bacon, eggs, home fries
and coffee for a dollar.  Ate outside on picnic tables, quiet in the morning chill.
 

Mary Stebbins
for Jean Kilquist  

The Night that Nothing Happened

There is something really messed up with the formatting.  Supposed to be 4-line stanzas--looks fine on the original.

The Night that Nothing Happened

 
Jean proposed the idea.  Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan?  We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail.  Simple. 

She'd read about it somewhere.  We'd brag about it later.  We'd tell stories

to our grandchildren.  We'd do it on the way back, too.  We drove on, told stories

to each other.  In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,

Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles.  Next gas 85 miles.   Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.

Sang into the wind rushing into open windows:  I've been working on the railroad

and Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east of Pocatello—

we decided to stop.  It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town 120 miles to the next gas.
A hamburger at Mabel's diner, a bowl of chili.  Then it was time

to test the idea.  At the jail door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other.  Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted?  We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.

But one of us asked.  Probably her.  The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled.  Looked us over.  We were twenty,
slender, had curves.  Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts.  Big

and soft.  We were alone with the Sheriff.  He suddenly seemed particularly
male, large, strong.  No chaperone, no witness.  I looked at the door,
took a step back.  Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in

for the night."  We nodded.  Two cells, two beds.  One big key.
We went in; the door clanked shut.  He sat at his desk.  We sat on our cots

and looked at him.  Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling.  Said
he was leaving.  Turned off the light

and left us alone.  Shadows of bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, the moon.

Perhaps Jean was actually calm.  She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car.  Still free.  Maybe I spoke too, pretending
to be having fun.  But if I spoke, even if I smiled,

I huddled in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
Lay watching the shifting stripes and segmented sky.  Awake.  Not wanting
to stay there again.  Not ever.  In the morning, the sheriff returned and unlocked the cells.
The outer door opened to an expanse of Wyoming sunshine.  At Mabel's,
we bought bacon, eggs, home fries and coffee for a dollar.  Ate outside on picnic tables,
quiet in the morning chill.

 

Mary Stebbins
For Jean Kilquist

At Ellen Bass Workshop
080411; 050316c; 050315, 3-12-05 1b (not part of poem)

Process in process

Attack!

Attack!

A warning growl alerts me.  Mountain Lion, hidden
on an overhanging beam.  The throaty growl intensifies.
If I run, she will leap.  Keeping the beam between us,
I back away, pencil clutched in my teeth to hold it at bay.
I slide under a quilt for cover.  Puny protection
when she jumps down and long claws gash my flesh
through the fabric.  I am afraid to call for help. If my daughters
come, the lion might hurt them.  I grab her jaw.  Teeth pierce
my hand, like nails.  In spite of the pain, I hold on.  And cry out.  
I try to scream, say help.  Help.  Help!  Still worrying
about the girls.  I try to scream, but my voice whispers. 
Weak, nearly inaudible.  No sounds of rescue, only silence.
I try again, and again fail.  I suck in air, gather my strength,
shout, HELP aloud and loud, and wake myself
in another bed in another room in another world. 
My heart crashes, and panting, I listen.  Have I wakened
my son yelling?  No sound.  Catching my breath,
flexing my injured hand, I lie still while dream fragments
fall away around me.  But another shell of tenacious dream
encloses me.  I push out again, and yet again, but am surrounded. 
In here with me, a lion still sits on my chest sheathing
and unsheathing its claws.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
080409

this is a brand new dream poem.

You can see the dreamwork here.