Poems by J. R. Solonche

USE

The woman at the hardware store
said, "Can I help you?" as I wandered 
down an aisle of paint brushes "No, 
thank you," I said. What I really needed
was a different kind of brush, one that 
could cover the cracks in my memory.
She moved on to another customer,
someone who actually knew what they
came for. But the question stuck with 
me, a fleck of paint on a thumb. "Can I 
help you?" Help with what? The years 
piled up, drying paint cans on the shelves 
of my brain, and none had the right color.
Some were labeled, The Summer of '82.
Others, My Daughter’s Laugh. Most were 
just a vague, unhelpful shade, like "off-
white" or "beige." I picked up a brush, 
a cheap one and held it up to the light. 
It felt useless. I felt useless. I bought it 
anyway just for the sake of having done 
something. “I see you found what you 
were looking for,” she said as I paid.
“Yes,” I said. Her smile was useful. 
It was exactly what I was looking for.

 

HAIRCUT

It is a small thing, getting a haircut.
Not a big, life-changing thing. Not 
a birth or a death. Not an earthquake
or the changing of a season. She puts 
the cloth around your neck, a flimsy
cape. Something you might wear if 
you were a small superhero with a small 
power. The small talk is sharp, quick.
The snip, snip of scissors. The weather. 
The traffic. The hairs fall to the floor, 
each one a miniature version of the hair 
you had just a minute ago. They’re all
the commas you cut from the essays
your students wrote over twenty-five
years. You get a little shorter. And when 
you leave, the wind feels like a different 
season on your neck. And your head is 
ready for the hand of your dreams upon
it. Ready for the earthquake you’ve been 
waiting for to change the rest your life.

 

KING HAMLET

He is what's left when a thing 
is broken. A king with only 
one subject, his son, the prince.
And so he visits his son, who 
is having a worse time of it 
than he is, who wishes he’s dead. 
At least back in school, far away 
from the rottenness of Denmark.
He watches him try to fix things. 
He wants to grab him by the lapels.
He wants to shake him. He wants 
to give him a swift kick in the ass.
But a ghost has no hands. He can 
only speak, and he’s running out 
of words, and he runs out of words,
until his son, the prince, who has never 
run out of words, runs out of words.

 

WHY I WANTED TO BE AN ASTRONOMER

It was not a telescope, or a book 
with diagrams of the solar system.
It was not the romance of the stars,
which I only knew from television.
It was the streetlights. I was a boy
in the Bronx, and the streetlights
were a kind of enemy, a kind of 
pollution. They were always on,
a yellowish wash over everything,
blurring the edges of the night.
I wanted to be an astronomer, so 
I could turn them off. Not all of 
them, just the ones between my eyes 
and the sky, especially the one right
outside my bedroom window.
I imagined a switch, a master switch,
that would cut the city's yellow glare,
and in that sudden dark, the stars 
would rush in, like a crowd in an 
empty room. I wanted to find a light
that was not a streetlight, that was 
not a porch light, that was so far away
it could not be turned off. I wanted to 
know the universe like the back of my 
hand. I did not become an astronomer.
I wasn’t good enough at math. I became
a poet, and I came to know the universe
of the back of my hand. 

 

LOUGHRAN’S

My friend Jeff and I are the same age.
He’s a vet. He joined. He went to Vietnam. 
I was drafted but was physically unfit.
He talks about it only when he’s drunk,
and it’s always the same story. His outfit
is dug in in the jungle. They’re surrounded
by VC. He’s scared. They’re all scared.
He’s trying to remember the code word. 
He keeps whispering, "Spaghetti." It’s a 
word the gooks could never pronounce.
He just keeps whispering, "Spaghetti, 
spaghetti, spaghetti." He looks me in 
the eye and says, "What's the password?" 
“Spaghetti,” I say. "No. That's the code 
word. Want me to blow you away? 
What’s the password, jerk?” he says.
He makes a rifle out of his index finger.
“Meatballs,” I say. “Okay, pass through,” 
he says, turning the rifle back into his
hand and smiling, as though he just won 
the war. It’s a game. The least I can do 
is play every time and pay – every time.