CANDELIN WAHL - POEMS

 Candelin Wahl is a Vermont writer who revels in a strong sense of place, knowing and protecting the natural world, and the muck of human frailties. She is Poetry Co-Editor of Mud Season Review, and her work can be found or is forthcoming in Stonecoast Review, Tuck Magazine, Red Wolf Journal, MockingHeart Review and other journals. She lives with her husband in northwestern Vermont, close to Lake Champlain, the Green Mountains and the lovely province of Quebec. For more about her, please visit www.candelinwahl.com Twitter: @beachdreamvt

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After the Ice Jam 
​

​turned north on a whim to retrieve gloves dropped
after a snowshoe last week
           —winter thaw warmed them off--
near the Canada border, traffic on Route 78 slows,
 
gawkers swallow the scene whole
            —massive slabs of ice--
flood-borne, soot black, vice-pressure against double-wide
homes, vehicles half-buried in a moonscape of debris
 
that’s a wrecked Bayliner marooned on the shoulder
piloted by a frozen tsunami
          —seventy-eight dwellings in its path--
residents forced outdoors, faces slack,
 
staring at the rigid river, blocks wedged back
between banks, but all a-jumble
          —like a bombed out igloo village--
except there’s no intruder to chase off, no enemy
to track down with dogs and a twenty-two

Leftovers
​

​In a stab at the frugality you say
I lack,
I eat your leftover leftovers
when you’re at work.
 
Fridge door ajar, I swallow
plastic forkfuls of blandness--
couscous, cauliflower, potato,
no shakes of curry, cardamom, cayenne.
 
Try serving this to a prisoner
inside Dannemora,
see his tin plate splat the wall
in protest.
 
Habituated to longing
I’m incited to strike,
tired of daydreaming
delicacies.

 

Tip of the Iceberg
​

​when he asks how you are
he means the tip of your iceberg
you know what he wants
but that doesn’t stop you from
speaking too freely of what’s
not right inside you
dragging him under icy
waves
risk freezing his blood,
stopping his heart to verify
how vast and deep
go your sharp, titanic
edges

Street Haiku
​

how came the tagger
with his black spray canister
to marquee this scenic underpass
did he do it in broad daylight
dart onto the rec path
       an iguana flicking its tongue
            against cool concrete
     or was it nocturnal emission
even letters over odd face
 steady strokes
       inexact glow of his phone
            street haiku −
  And the
Persimmon
S P O K E
     Live
     FREE
   Suburban
      SCRAMZ!
my scribbled notebooks stared down   
by some leering glassy-eyed fruit
            tongue and brain can’t even place
index finger itches for abandon
    lawless canvas to spatter
                        to yell
            to hell with you
                                    to matter

In the Kitchen with Lemons
​

​any time she pulls the bright plastic
citrus press from its upside down
twists halves on a spiral, draws essence
from seeds and pulp,
she is desirable−
a movie starlet on a steamy set,
tart droplets trace her forearms, exposed
breasts suck some,
slim wrist lifts damp wisps,
sirens the darkened breeze
 
but for the half apron strung at her waist,
half-hearted husband in the next room
she might blink blue eyes Yes to a tall stranger
would one stand at her screen door, touch
a calloused hand to the brim
of his buffalo wool Stetson, willing
to rope her away