Mark writes: Joe once mentioned to me that “Fakers” was one of his favorites. The other two he nominated for Pushcart prizes, so I figure that gives them pride of place.
Yellow Boots
A small boy wears yellow rubber boots
he’ll soon outgrow but for now
keep him dry
as he helps his young mother push
his little sister in her stroller,
his tan barn jacket
just right for the rainy weather,
his sister’s stroller
protected
by a cover of clear plastic that also
keeps her clear plastic bag
of Cheerios dry,
more gear—juice packs and
wipes and toys—in
a mesh sack
hanging from the stroller handle,
the mother—sensibly yet
smartly rain-styled—
listening to the boy’s enthusiasms
then sweetly laughing and
as I veer off
and they vanish, I see them still
slipping away in
my mind—
yellow boots lingering—
as if I was time
traveling
into the boy’s far future;
into stringent days
sweetened
by his earliest—
if now departing—
rain-slicked memories.
The Word
The Ferris wheel, after
furnishing a grand ride,
stops with you at the top
and starts to let riders off
(drop/stop/swing a bit)
seat by numbered silver
seat and you try to savor
each remaining vista
(I can still see the car wash!
I can still see Kelly’s farm!),
your allegiance true to heights
each step of the fated way down,
you rocking your seat as much
as you dare while you still have
the chance until it’s nearly your
turn and you start to feel the pull
of the big, warm earth and hear
the indifferent gears of the Ferris
wheel and, reorienting, notice
how the process of getting off
is undertaken: then the thin,
nicked metal bar gets swung
open by a slightly scary carney
and you step out and plant your
feet on the wooden ramp, then,
steps later, on the solid crust of
home ground, the familiar place
the ride, it seems, only just began
and though you’re only 7 years old
the whole circular event feels like
some weird premonition
except you don’t know that word
yet so don’t know what it was you
just felt; what it was just happened.
Fakers
I woke when the car stopped, but
faked sleep
so my father
would carry me into the house.
“He’s faking,” my big sister, having to walk
because no faker herself, crankily complained.
But my father, not listening,
carried me in anyway,
faking he didn’t know I was faking
because he liked to carry his boy.
We two fakers,
hugging each other for real.
Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Harvard Review, and Michigan Quarterly Review. He is the author of seven collections of poems and two works of fiction: Stonehaven (Turning Point, 2020) and its sequel, Edgewood (Turning Point, 2022). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times, as well as for a Best of the Net Award. Please visit www.markbelair.com