JAMES CIHLAR
James Cihlar's poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The James White Review, and Briar Cliff Review; his reviews and essays have appeared in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, Literary Magazine Review, and the Lincoln
Journal-Star. He has worked in editing, art, and marketing at Redleaf Press, Coffee House Press, and New Rivers Press. In 2000 he won a Minnesota Arts Board Fellowship in Poetry.
--------
EXPEDITION
Without being ponderous,
the cracked cookie jar's tag
announces $24.95, 'as is.'
Cream clapboard body, teal roof lid
with worn burgundy chimney pull.
I didn't want to write this poem,
but a taste of yours made me.
This weekend my blue Corolla took me
to the other side of the river,
a ring of thrift stores,
my old neighborhood,
to sift through the wreckage
of unknown neighbors' past lives,
seeking a glimpse of something simple,
plain objects forgotten and shared,
a flash to expedite insight into ten years ago,
the beginning of a long run of jobs,
unexpected bends in the road.
You say wanderlust is in the blood.
I could stop writing now, but I won't.
How long? Ten minutes, maybe,
staring at the thing is enough to tell me
I'd never be satisfied with this fractured jar,
its bad home repair work.
Instead, this trek delivers
yellow bamboo ceramic planter
that the collector's guide says is from 1974,
Schroeder and Lucy Welch's grape jelly jar,
a gift to match the one you bought this summer
two blocks from your mother's house,
a plate of the make my prodigal sister
collected back when she was anchored
in the deep blue front bedroom of home.
A flower vase in the shape of a woman's head,
cardinal perched on mod hat above her enigmatic face.
--------
TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT
Our father, who is not dying,
my language is smaller than you.
In fields below the mountains,
low blocks of light search for fruit.
Eliotis this dull?
A yellow flower on the wall,
it screams 'Charlie.'
I don't dare. I don't care.
Heaven must be another place
with long waiting lines,
shucked clamshells, robins,
Christmas by the shore.
Fresh peach makes the devil his own.
How am I going to get there?
Once you've gone textbook,
there's no turning back.
Let the meadow follow
the horses galloping loose.
It has a lengthy decision to make.
Bring us back to our daily bed,
tuck us in there, tight,
sprout whiskers on our heads.
--------
BLUE HEAVEN
Driving back to work after Goodwilling
on University Avenue, Saint
Paul, during my lunch hour.
There goes Ryan the Plumber.
Shear Pleasure. Salon
of Beauty. Christian music
played at the Salvation Army.
I held up a thick china plate
from the fifties, blue and gray
border, atomic shapes,
Blue Heaven. Phil's Oriental
Foods. Servicios en Espanol.
Where is there a public toilet
in Frogtown? Frogtown toilet?
Stetson China began in Chicago
in 1935 and operated until 1965,
Ebay said. Bill won't like this, but I found
a stack of Colonial Interiors for seven bucks
at the Saint Vincent de Paul.
He doesn't like clutter, and moans
when I bring more into the house.
How do you handle the difference?
Lisa will ask a week from now.
I pretend every comment is a joke.
How funny. Every single one.
Twelve piece feast. Drive Thru.
Behind the farmers' market,
next to El Amor,
a vast empty parking lot,
abandoned strip mall,
Cecil's Drugstore, white reversed out of purple.
I must have that sign.