In order to view this poem as the author intended it to appear, we suggest reading it on a computer screen or in the landscape orientation on your phone.

First Three Days of May
Mark MacAllister

The Winter Bed

You don’t change it as much
as you dismantle it
pull off the dark green flatsheet and pillow cases
the heavy maroon fitted sheet
over-laundered and going slack at the corners

the patchwork quilt you found in Vermont
hand-washed and line-dried
double-wrapped in plastic
pushed into the closet
with the orange earflap hunter hats

what you call a Swiss Army Blanket
wool and entirely utilitarian with its single red stripe
folded and returned to the cedar chest

of course that’s a lot of covers
but all winter you slept
with two windows and the porch door
just slightly open

replace it all with thin white flannel
(you permit only flannel against your skin)

then re-pile the books spread about the room
put the rag rugs out to air
promise yourself to sleep past sunrise tomorrow

Safe Line

Twenty iron rods rise like heavy needles
from the ground
they are head high and spaced every fifteen feet
steel cable connects one eye to the next
they are what you did not dare let go
during the whiteouts that ceased last month

eyes shut hard against the wind
you remembered to count them off
more than once turned back to start over

after the cable is coiled and strapped
you auger the stakes free
lay them on newspaper
and spray each bright red
for next year’s storms

only then do you walk the yard unguided
from house to machine shed to barn
gauge the roofs for leaks
catalog what is bent or broken
all that has gone missing
beneath what remains of the muddy snow

Breakup

With the chains off the tires
it’s an adventure to the trailhead

leave the snowshoes in the truck
even though you will posthole the last mile

and steam like an early-morning draft horse
as you keep pace with your wish to be there

moose and mule deer stand and stretch
among biting bugs and wildflowers

just last week the lake was a flat white sheet
now it is ice groan and rifle shot

water at the outlets already runs hard
feed the creeks you will cross
and cross again all summer

—
Mark MacAllister grew up in northern Illinois, spent a great deal of time on his grandparents’ dairy farm in Wisconsin’s Driftless region, and learned to write at Oberlin College. Mark now lives in Pittsboro, North Carolina, and takes frequent hiking trips to the Wisconsin Northwoods and to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. His professional career has focused on the conservation of wildlands and wildlife; he is also an active member of his community’s emergency response team, of a red wolf conservation organization, and of a Wisconsin-based writers’ cooperative.

Know anyone who might appreciate reading Mark’s poem?
Why not share the link to this page?

Have you read these poems:
The Mind-Melting Grand Ka-Pow! by Mark Walsh
Serendipity by Gary Harrison

Table of Contents