Squaretable Seminars

Good and Evil were at recess, so while Justice
was eating lunch at the corner café,
I picked up her blindfold from the jury box
and tightened its objectivity about my eyes.

I held her double-edged sword in my right hand,
dangled the chain of scales from my left,
and stepped into the regal pose of the law
I had seen her take on many an occasion.

How embarrassing her complacent gaze
when the blindfold fell off,
the way the scales clanged to the floor
and the sword razed my calf
filling my nostrils with the red sting of iron.


© Hannah Walleser

All you have to do is listen to the way a woman
sometimes rants to her friends about all the things
her husband does wrong while he waits on the side
holding her purse and biting his tongue

and you will know why the men in science
fiction movies who land their spaceships here
are not pictured tumbling out with a football
or wiping rocket grease off bulging biceps,

why they are always huddled behind a messenger
with palms lifted, their mouths set in anticipation,
their genitals retracted into a smooth elastic skin.


© Hannah Walleser

My granny used to speed skate on the marble clouds
of lake ice in Michigan. Her pine forest backyard
was perfect for blueberries and bears to course
through alongside enough tales of Paul Bunyan a landfill
couldn’t swallow them. She used her piece of the pie
to attend nursing school and passed with passion, not luck.

She once dated JFK, and patted the Enola Gay for luck
before it took off to deliver the mushroom clouds.
Years later she taught me to make her UP blueberry pie
in Wisconsin, and we fed the birds bread in the backyard.
Her wedding dress, now since living in a landfill,
was sewn out of Japanese parachute silk, of course

homemade, like her calligraphies that course
along her wedding program. It was some luck
that we salvaged the paper from ending up in the landfill
the winter the washer malfunctioned and invisible clouds
poured rain downstairs. We had to use the backyard
to sort out the basement’s treasures into a lopsided pie

of melted photographs, squishy sideboards, rusted pie
tins, and unmendable clothes. Through the course
of a thousand trips to the dumpster behind the backyard
we cleaned up the memories. The only luck
we had consisted of paper towels to soak up the clouds
of moisture that molded in puddles. Maybe the landfill

had a special place for broken Susie Smart: a landfill
hospital for easy bake ovens that burned the pie
and were retired to the basement after too many clouds
of char wafted out. We found sketches from the art course
that she took at a college women’s week, and as luck
would have it, the Xmas decorations evaded the backyard

too. The basement door opened onto the backyard
the way her house design planned, just beside the landfill
drop point for clothes at the mangle iron. Maybe luck
kept the nosy Polack neighbors away when the pizza pie
called us inside to eat. The clown makeup, of course,
disintegrated, and the cotton crèche set clouds

matted down in the backyard pile. Her pumpkin pie
and other recipes survived the landfill, in due course
of family memory, a good luck sign to taunt the clouds.


© Hannah Walleser

You were trained in Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation:
A horde of kids jumped off the bus and jostled for attention,
First you assess the situation; look around and make sure
excited to have a weekend away from their parents’ control.
there is no immediate danger for the victim or for yourself.
You split them into groups by age and sex, put a check

Then approach the victim and tap their shoulder to check
next to their names on a clipboard. A few needed resuscitation
for consciousness. Have someone call 911 and situate yourself
from the long bus ride, a little sugar to keep their attention.
next to the victim. Tilt the head back, being careful to control
There was a big difference in ages, but you weren’t too sure

the movement, and look, listen, and feel to be sure
who’d been through more. They looked around to check
of any breathing or a pulse. Seal your mouths and control
which group their friends were in. A quick resuscitation
two breaths into their lungs. You need to pay attention
of order pulled them into various activities. You patted yourself

to whether they go in. If there is no pulse, calm yourself
on the back for your keen organizational skills, sure
and proceed to chest compressions. Focus your attention
the week would be a breeze. You glanced at each check
on your hands, locked on their chest. This resuscitation
on their med sheets and found out that your ability to control

effort depends on thirty compressions you control
these kids would make or break their week. You kept to yourself
1 ½ - 2 inches downward. You cycle the resuscitation
the details of who came from a family of abuse, sure
with two breaths (but with the new rules you don’t check
everyone already knew, but you wanted to prevent the wrong attention

for a pulse every 2 minutes anymore). Your attention
for those with depression or parents with drug or alcohol control
stays on the cycle until help arrives, EMS check
issues. The bullying, threats, and fights you would deal with yourself,
in and take over, or you can’t continue. Make sure
unless someone wrote a suicide note this year. The resuscitation

your attention is on the status of the victim and yourself.
of childhood under control was the goal for the week, for sure.

But what box do you check when they don’t respond to resuscitation?


© Hannah Walleser

She didn’t need balls
to catch one, or to run from base
to base like you guys
thought. The second
time she wore the uniform
you knew she wouldn’t drop out.

You couldn’t figure that out,
or how the balls
she threw made it the uniform
distance to the base.
She pushed every second
to prove to you guys

that she was one of the guys
on the field. But out
there you didn’t give her a second
thought, threw the balls
past her to a different base.
The orange-striped uniform

didn't look too uniform
on her chest, and you guys
made bets for which base
you could get to without
a knee to your balls
to knock you down for a second.

She played second
without a cup in the uniform
to protect her from stray balls
like you guys
had to wear, and she stuck out
her ponytail at the base

of her cap. But every base
she rounded was a second
too late, every strike-out
a shame to the uniform;
of course none of the guys
dropped that many balls.

She finished out the season and turned in the uniform.
The second summer came, but she didn’t want the guys
to base their comments again on whether she had balls.


© Hannah Walleser

8th

We were taking a test,
something stupid like math
or German maybe,
and the teacher walks out.
I’m concentrating pretty hard
but Joe reaches in his pocket,
pulls out this rubber ball
and starts bouncing it.
It’s quiet but it annoys me,
and then one bounce
sends it flying over the half-wall
into the principal’s office.
Everybody looks up then
and Joe zips on over to the window,
opens it and jumps out.
Well of course the principal
rounds the corner
and wants to know
whose rubber ball this is,
but nobody says anything.
And here comes Joe
in from the hallway,
says he was in the bathroom.
Brilliant.


2 ½, 40

I headed out on the river
with Hannah in tow
on the ice fishing shack.
Nancy had her bundled up
in scarves and sweaters
and snow pants.
We hiked out around
the bend over there
and I drilled a couple holes.
I gave her the scoop
to keep the ice out
and we talked.
Ten hours later
we went back home.
She’d just been potty trained.
and was embarrassed
that she’d had to pee her pants
because it was too cold.
Even Nancy couldn’t
settle her down.
She’s only two.
It was good to spend
some time together
before we can’t.


2008

Sue saw a spirit
in the pew next to us.
He had brown hair
and a blue checkered shirt.
After Mass Mom showed
her an Easter picture
when we were babies.
The same man stands,
arm around our mom.
We talk about this
on the porch steps
of the Legion Hall.
The kick to an x-ray
bounces down from
the boys at karate practice.
Sue pokes her head up
the staircase ready
to say something smart.
She stops mid-step
and hurries back over.
There are people
dressed up for dancing
in that stairwell
who know they’re dead.


5¢

There used to be a school
here in Harpers, you know;
that’s what the gym’s from.
There were two stores,
and the river business
and, well, there was more.
Oh, this town
was just a hoppin’.
Every Saturday night
there'd be a dance
up in the Legion;
‘course that’s where we
store the old drums now
for Memorial Day.
Hell yes, this place
was something, I tell you.
We’d get all done up
and go out together.
Now anybody ever does
is meet up for coffee,
but I s’pose that’s
all we can do now
that we’re old
and not too pretty, hey?


© Hannah Walleser

she sits on a lunchroom bench
. dips a spoon in pudding
he looks over
. catches her eye


she takes a smooth mouthful
. twists it upside-down
he forgets
. what he was saying


she half closes her eyes
. opens them full back at him
he knows
. what that look is


she lets the tip sit at her lips
. swallows
he smiles
. walks over


© Hannah Walleser

“Back then even the good girls got dizzy”
DIZZY GIRLS IN THE SIXTIES – Gary Soto


We left the avisos of our madres españolas in our house shoes,
Thoughts of early billetes and bottles of agua faded,
And we nearly skipped west along the calles.

We went to Trujillo on the morning autobús,
Dragged around bocadillos of jamón and oranges
And sipped from cans with nickel-thick bottoms.

We took bites out of the ripe queso, the fuzzy manzanas,
The tortilla española that is not made with flour,
And threw the rest away in a plastic bag.

We sat on pitted concrete and fished out our dulces,
Drank milk-juice from the aluminum-insided cartons,
And its sabor paraíso escaped in dribbles with our laughter.

We modeled like true turistas around the square’s tiendas
While Pizarro sat like a patron saint atop his caballo,
And pigeons circled his head to drop a white crown.

We evaded guides that spouted moreno history like faucets,
Tried on the acento of stone walls with glass barbed wire,
And pulled our necks around every corner with a good vista.

We discussed the trabajo for class and headed back east,
Digested the vino and the cultura as the spotted land passed,
And then thinned out in parejas for the walk home.


© Hannah Walleser

Four years ago
I slipped on a nightie
and lay down
next to a bronzed youth.
I shut my eyes
that were so heavy
with purple crescents,
as if to sleep.
Something curled up
like a whisper
by my bare feet
and breathed heavy.
When I tucked my knees
like a small child,
it resettled
in my arms.
Slivers of moon
shifted silent
beneath the curtains,
my back oval
as an egg.
I thought of us
in limbo
the last months,
and that murmur
pressed deeper
into my chest
and whined.
A minute more,
and it blinked
and suffocated
at my breast.
To that I wept
and slid
away from the stud boy,
with the thing
doubled over at my ribs
like a voice
cracking.


© Hannah Walleser

Things accumulated at our house,
the house of the brats,
three redheaded kids,
things like bats.

Sometimes
we noticed a dark spot on the ceiling
not quite the right shape
to be a knot in the wood.

When we were little
Mom doled out the butterfly nets.
We shrieked in terror and excitement
and jumped when it did.

I bet she was just glad
we were amused
and that she didn’t have to catch it
on her own.

How absurd to see
pajama-ed kids
chasing after a squeaking nightmare
like it really was a butterfly.

The flapping thing
ended up outside on the porch
and Hans Joseph and I back inside
heaved shut the door.

John Henry with his hammer
whacked that thing,
whooped and hollered like a madman
‘til it was flat.

Mom loaded it up
on the tulip-planting shovel
and flung it over the road
to the dead corn field.

The four of us
then settled back on the sofa
in the living room
in peace.


© Hannah Walleser

I went to two of the readings during the Wildness Symposium: Mosaic Finding Beauty in a Broken World with Terry Tempest Williams on Saturday and Blood Dazzler with Patricia Smith on Sunday.

Terry Tempest Williams opened with the theme word empathy. She read a letter from a fellow writer to her friend whose 27 yr old daughter had committed suicide this week. The most striking words I remember are “Sing… sing silent if you must, for finally, there are no words.” Then she began reading excerpts from her book, about hearing the word mosaic when her heart was searching for guidance, apprenticing in Italy the trade of mosaics, and working with her hands to form something new out of something broken. She read some and spoke some, a very balanced and meaningful switch between the two forms of sharing and explaining her experience.

There were three major topics: prairie dogs of Utah and how, if they disappear, who will cry for the rain; the survivors of the Genocide in Rwanda and finding a way to properly memorialize and provide burial for the murdered families; and her “adopted” son Louie. In one passage Louie, her translator while in Rwanda, tried to describe what it was like to interpret; he said it was more than words, something like creating a space for two hungers for understanding to come together. Another powerful insight was that he noticed the children in the streets, without opportunity, but waiting to be transformed. She very easily tied everything into the meanings mosaic and empathy.

Patricia Smith opened her reading with a poem about her 6th grade class from Miami Dade County, Florida; their straightforward knowing that they each know someone who’s dead, and their eagerness to learn how to write poetry that somehow can help them with the losses. She then read a more lighthearted poem about her and a friend discovering the Louvre in all their American-ness. Then she read from her book about Hurricane Katrina. She also had three main themes: the personification of Katrina, slowly learning her body and quickly becoming a terrific woman; the dog Luther B; and some of the victims of the storm including the 34 nursing home residents.

She read poem after poem with a minimum of explanation in between. What I like best is that she really embodied her poems and their individual narrators and she really performed them like they were alive. She gave a voice to the devastation so that people can begin to make themselves aware of the events. By imaging these real people, developing their hell through believable characters she allows readers and listeners to feel a sliver of truth that wasn’t shown through the media.