Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 12
Table of

My mother in a red hat

She is sitting serenely on a sofa
in the salon of a friend’s motor yacht
wearing her pea coat and a rolled brim cotton hat
looking into the camera
somewhere between Ketchikan and bemusement.

A guested passenger, she travels widowed
across the water my father always feared.
This voyage, a few years after his sudden death,
even as her cancer was eating her lung,
was simply another trip on her life’s late itinerary.

What was she thinking when that photo
caught her trademark crooked smile?
Had she renounced her trepidations,
bid a grand slam now with nothing left to lose,
after a life spent following the same recipes?

I had seen that look before
when she shared a secret
said everything without uttering a word
or when she confided
she wanted balloons released at her funeral
which led me to ask if the metastasis
had short-circuited her brain
and then that smile again.

Even when she endured radiation therapy
head clapt in a stereostatic frame,
there was that enigmatic Mona Lisa in a Polaroid.

So when the yacht anchored off some unnamed rivulet
that emptied into a cove where grizzlies
come to feast on spawning salmon,
the bunch of seventy-year olds piled into the Zodiac
and the captain cranked the throttle wide open
plowing the raft ahead
while my mother stood in the bucking prow
gripping the bowline like a rodeo rider,
her hat blown back.

  Larry Oakner


Death was quick, I hope.
The grey fur and white belly flattened
while scrounging for a dab of peanut butter bait.
The jaws of the trap snapped its spine instantly.
But this is my house I scramble to work for.
Mice are not welcome here, their droppings speckling the floor.
Still, a shiver of compassion runs down my back
as I shake the mouse from the trap into a plastic bag.
Carrying the weightless shrouded body to the trash
I catch my grizzled reflection in the mirror.

  Larry Oakner

The Sky Starts At The Ground ©Corina T.v.M.

In a station of the subway

I passed by an apparition
of my younger self, dressed sharp
in a Stetson fedora, brim up, my same auburn beard
and confident stride toward tomorrow
with his beautiful wife in her fanciest at his side.
I walked ahead of them
dwelling on dark thoughts
after my doctor’s recent auguring
of a prostate that felt “a little abnormal”
and the blood work results days away.
That is a long time not to think about
forever or cancer or what would be unfinished.
I lingered there between my Spring and Fall
until the doctor’s call prescribed a breath of relief.
And in that exhalation was the exhilaration
of being exactly where I always need to be.

  Larry Oakner__