Blue Blues

What is the color blue,

but the back-beat of light?

The ghost of Lady Day, tapping

the séance table at night?

Dungarees flap on the line

pegged to daylight’s sky—

a forget-me-not gown,

a chambray shirt, an old navy tie.

Corduroy, indigo of the sea,

Goodwill-bought velveteen,

melancholy riffing chords

A-minor, E-minor, Gee!

Ultramarine progression,

baptized on the down low,

takes my eyes to church.

dyed-in-the-wool, slow.

Copyright 2017—Claire Germain Nail

To a Pitiful Soul

There’s this Siren you might mistake for the Still Small Voice—

but loud enough, actually, like the alarm you forgot to disable before Saturday morning.

She narrates this tale in which you’re The Last Emperor.

Everyone else shrinks to minutiae. You grow gargantuan. Yes, poor you,

your angst drowns out all Ratio and Proportion.

Don’t even crack the door open to accept her greeting.  Don’t entertain her.

First, she’ll hang her hair shirt over your chair, then she wants to bunk with you;

not content with the guest room. She’ll demand the best sheets—the featherbed.

She’ll steal your just desserts. She’ll trash your treasures, send compassion packing. 

She chokes your jokes, and lurks in the cupboard to cloudy your thinking.

With a neon Sharpie, she highlights offenses, stores them in scrapbooks.

She rechristens you The Victim. Every slight reckoned.

Soon, you’re jealous of stories sadder than yours. You demand a black armband,

a wheelchair, a glass eye, a eulogy, a clean hanky, a foot in the door—

If you glimpse this harpy behind you, run like Hell opened its exits. Get out now!

Find another dwelling—a foxhole if need be, an orange crate, even a cave.

This public service announcement comes from my watchful heart.

Look out, you, flirting with her in the shadowy alleys, giving her a try.

Look, her lipstick’s already all over your collar.

Copyright 2017 –Claire Germain Nail

The Parakeet Mother

From the wide steps of Aunt Maggie’s house,

I look out on this golden afternoon:

sunlight on the windows of my kindergarten school,

jungle gym in its sawdust sea, the hopscotch, the squeaky swing,

the shade of giant trees—and—there,

two houses down the yellow house,

the screened-in side-porch where, cage set out to catch the sun,

a blue parakeet jumps and tweets.

Mrs. Peterson calls me from her stoop

to come meet her parakeet, Piccolo Pete.

She calls him her baby blue boy, and kisses his beak.

We carry his cage into her spotless kitchen.

She gives me Coca Cola, and a sugar cookie.

I break off crumbs for Piccolo Pete.

He can talk. Free of the cage, he squeaks.

 “Piccolo Pete! Piccolo Pete!”

up the ladder of my arm, his prickly feet.

He crosses my shoulders,

tugs at the fringe of my braids,

scrambles over my sleeve.

and pecks at the cookie I before I can give it.

We laugh, Mrs. Peterson and me—

Now, I’m allowed to call her just “Shirley.”

Prob’ly because of Piccolo Pete,

Maybe because we laugh,

or maybe—

because I’m a little girl in a sailor dress—

because Shirley has that photo of a sailor

propped up on her T.V.

I want to ask who is he?

But there’s a boxful of parakeet toys:

a tiny Ferris wheel, a mirror, a ball with a bell he can ring, and

a little car with birdseed in the seat.

When Pete pecks at the seed,

the little car goes.

Pretty soon, Pete sits on my finger and gives me a kiss.

And ‘cause this bird, and his mother love me—

I’m brave enough to ask, “Who’s that sailor boy?”

I point to the photo on the TV.

Pete rides my shoulders like a pirate’s bird,

We take a closer look at that handsome face,

guessing the real colors under the black and white.

I point, the way my mother has taught me never do.

“Who’s he?”

“I’m not just a parakeet mother,”

Shirley steps nearer, her voice soft.

“That’s my boy,” she cups her cheeks

as if her face might drop to the carpet.

“What’s his name?” I need to know,

 because it must be a good name,

a nice sound, like, Piccolo Pete.

“Michael. Michael John.”

Her eyes are full of rain,

Just from saying his beautiful name?

and I think it’s me,

I’ve done something wrong.

Piccolo Pete flaps his wings,

He lands on the gray nest of her curls,

Shirley smiles again.

 “Michael was like you when he was small,

always loved the birds of the air…”

 “Where’s Michael now? Did he go away?”

Her “Yes” almost a whisper,

“Went to Korea. He never came back."

I don't understand. She explains.

"Sweetheart, he went to Heaven.

Maybe he is sailing there, from cloud to cloud.”

She is smiling and crying at the same time,

and now I’m feeling sad, too.

I don’t know much.

I don’t know any place named Korea, or even Heaven, except for angels in cartoons;

I think my town is called 909 Myrtle Street;

First Grade next year, I’ll be learning everything.

“Can’t you go see him?” I ask. “Won’t he come home?”

“No, my dear, I won’t see Michael for a long, long time.”

I try to untangle this. Michael John Peterson, that sailor boy, why can’t he come home?

I don’t know where Heaven is but it must be on the sea.

Shirley blows her nose and looks at the clock,

“Oh, dear child, it’s nearly dinner time!”

So, I have to go now, when she’s so sad, I’m sorry.

I have to help, set the table, fold the napkins—those things.

I run all the way back to Aunt Maggie’s

“Hi, I saw Piccolo Pete,”

I’m setting a spoon beside the knife.

“Mrs. Peterson cried;

She won’t see her son for a long, long time.”

“You went there?” Auntie looks at me funny, her eyebrows a V.

She says, “Very, very bad you brought up that he died.

Shirley’s been mourning forever. Finally coming to terms.

Don’t bother her again. Stay away from her!”

Morning forever—is that what it is?

Time has stopped at Mrs. Peterson’s house?

I feel very bad, but—I go back to the yellow house where because

I’m feeling brave, I ask at the door,

“If I don’t bother you, Mrs. Peterson,  please—can I play with Piccolo Pete?

I promise not to talk about Michael John.”

Mrs. Peterson squeezes me, her apron smells like summer breeze,

“I’m glad you’re here, honey. Piccolo Pete loves you.

Call me Aunt Shirley, please.

And, yes, let’s—please, talk about Michael John.

Let’s talk about him, so he’s not really gone.”

That’s what she says, the Parakeet Mother.

“You can ask me anything.”

So, I ask for a cookie first,

and she gives me two.

--Copyright Claire Germain Nail 2017