Stefan J. Broidy
ISBN: 978-1-59948-696-3, ~40pages, $12
Projected Release Date: October 2018
A Discount Price of $6.50 will be available for a limited time prior to publication and may be discontinued at any time.
PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.
About The Author
Steve Broidy is Emeritus Professor of Education at both Missouri State University and Wittenberg University. He is Editor of and contributor to From the Tower: Poetry in Honor of Conrad Balliet (Main Street Rag, 2016). With his wife Susan, he lives in rural Southwest Ohio. His poetry has appeared in The Midwest Review, Dark Matter, The Resurrectionist, Amethyst Review, Allegro Poetry Magazine, and other venues.
In Spring Calf and Prom Time
Monroe comes in again to try the john,
but it’s no use:
his daughters, or a flock of sparrows,
are chattering in the bath.
He thinks about his blackened hands,
the planter spread in pieces
through the yard. Time,
he speculates, must flow at
different rates on either side
of a bathroom door.
He hears his spring calves calling,
hungry in their dusty stalls,
and knocks again.
Girls burst out in clouds
of powder, blushed and brightened
by the heat. Laughing
loudly, shying from
his greasy clothes, they pose
on graceless heels.
He shuts the bathroom door
against them, cracks the rueful
grin he saves for Holstein
calves’ first reckless romp
in blooming pasture.
The room is dark and close;
the voices fade. He calculates
the help he’ll need to lead
them to the field; the time
he knows he’ll steal again
to watch them shine in hot
May sun: young, and dumb,
and freshly painted.
In a Dry Time
With a line from Paul Celan
They were on the febrile edge of age:
last year the flu, a new knee for him;
another muddy growth cut away
from her face. And now the drought—
since May not a shower. The mummied
cornfield, stiff and wizened, rattled
in the raving wind. Mare’s tail and thistle
smothered the beans. Their bees scraped at blossoms
burned and barren, foretelling winter
death of hives.
But there was earth inside them, loamy
and deep. And they dug: He hauled
himself into the old Farmall to bury
the crop, slice and break the gasping
ground once more, dust of failed fields
rising to heaven like souls fled
from their clay.
With hope he sowed the wheat; but she
pried up the failing okra, tomatoes; pulled
the dead dill and withering sage.
Kneeling on the stadium pillow
she kept from her son’s last season, years gone,
she shaped the holes for the fall broccoli,
seeded the new rows of lettuce and kale;
poured the water, spread blankets of soil
with gentle care.
Because it was what they knew, because
they had never learned to stop; because
there was not yet earth above them,
A Call from an Old Girlfriend, After Many Years
Jackie? Of course; I remember you,
As fondly as I do
I see yours clearly—raven, sleek,
Even now as we speak,
After long years.
I can almost feel again your heat
Against my Olds’ back seat—
If I dare.
And also feel, as of old—
Hard, unforgiving as winter’s cold—
Your mother’s stare.
Both of you flung another man’s bid
In my face—so quick to be rid
Of our too-slow affair.
And now, you say, it’s over. I am so
Sorry. And it’s good to hear your voice again.
You know, of course, I’m married now,
My kids all grown and fled?
Oh yes, my brother would have told you that
When he gave you my new number.
I’ll remember to thank him (the rat)
When I see him in December.
Goodbye. I won’t pretend regret
For choices made when I was yet
A foolish boy. But hear me:
I will turn our happier days
In my mind like warm pages
In my book of cares;
A book whose mistakes I can’t repair.