What I Remember of Wichita, Kansas by Carol Barrett

 

Steve Johnson

What I Remember of Wichita, Kansas

​in honor of the passengers of American flight 5342, and Elwin

I did not come for camp, as many did. I came 

because my husband and I both got jobs there

when we finished school. Pins on the map –

the only place where his and hers coincided.

It helped that my father grew up in Kansas, knew

how wheat swirled, the windmill spinning.

 

I did not skate there. I danced. I moved bodies

on stage. Men lifted women over their heads

and exchanged them in the air, while 

a metronome pounded the beats of a heart.

This dance was called Transplant. It got

good reviews in the Wichita Eagle Beacon.

 

My father said we meet all planes. On holiday

I flew home to Washington -- the other 

Washington. I arranged for a Pakistani student

to watch the house, feed the cat. On return, 

I unpacked, then went to my typewriter.

A freshly rolled piece of paper: I love you.

 

I wrote my first poems in Wichita, Kansas. 

My mentor came and watched me dance.

She wrote a poem about me dancing.

That got me started on a new love. I wrote 

so many poems, I did not have time to read 

The promised research on sabbatical.

 

The Dean was very understanding.

His twin brother had died of a heart attack

playing tennis, and I supported him

in his grief. He moved me, despite objections,

from the psychology department to English.

That is where I met the Pakistani student.

 

My husband practiced tai chi for hours

in our living room to maintain balance.           

The shag carpet under him, deep green 

like the lawn on North Harding Street. 

Out the sliding glass door, a pond.

The water lay dark, day and night.

 

My parents came to visit in Wichita,

Kansas. My mother made curtains​​​​​​

for the spare bedroom. My father rototilled 

the garden, met the Dean. I planted corn

and beans, tomatoes, and squash.

Onions, pumpkins, peas, and carrots.

 

I did not hunt in Wichita, Kansas.

I did not hunt anywhere. But my brother

hunts, taught his daughters to shoot,

and my nephews, brother-in-law, uncle. 

I’m glad he locks his guns in the basement.

I do not like the noise. I am fond of deer.

 

Before Kansas, my mother drove me to dance

and music lessons. She made sponge cakes

for birthdays. My grandmother wanted 

to live to be one hundred. She reached 

her goal, plus a bonus eight days,

while I was teaching in Wichita, Kansas.

 

Death can be hard to pinpoint –

impact, fire, fall, dark river.

Planes can collide in the night air.

So can partners in a marriage,

despite the flight plan. It can 

take a while to recover the bodies.

© Carol Barrett

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Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett began writing poetry to support the widowed women she was counseling. Her most recent book is READING WIND. Currently living in Oregon, Carol supervises creative dissertations for students at two universities.

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Darkened Ground by Julie A. Dickson

 

Alfo Medeiros

Darkened Ground

The forest stood silently waiting for the first twinkle of light to peek through the trees, announcing the arrival of morning. The birds, still quite peaceful, had just begun their good morning songs of gaiety, fluttering about, fixing their nests, and looking for their breakfast of fat beetles. The small woodland animals were waking up, scampering around the forest floor.

 

A small abandoned campfire smoldered, the remains of a site from the night before. A brisk wind picked up, catching sparks and sending them airborne to a nearby thicket. Oxygen from the breeze fanned the sparks into flame. Crackling sounds broke into the quiet of morning as the ground cover caught fire, and soon the wandering fingers of flame crawled outward, quickly consuming leaves and grass.

 

In the distance, other sounds could be heard. The birds and squirrels watched from the trees and made nervous, alert sounds. The forest was suddenly alive with movement. The inhabitants gradually became of danger approaching, something that didn’t belong in their forest home. An acrid scent permeated the morning air, and birds started flying around their nests, uncertain whether to stay with the unhatched eggs or to fly away to safety. Fearful sounds gained volume as fluttering and scampering added to the sounds of the spreading fire, crackling as it consumed everything in its path.

 

As the danger approached, some rodents burrowed more deeply into the ground, while others ran to the edge of the forest, into the unfamiliar fields beyond. A chipmunk sat up on haunches to look around. Smoke was now visible, and many animals were running from the woods; squirrels and rabbits ran alongside one another without regard for anything but their instinct to flee.

 

Suddenly, a thunderous loud noise was heard; the roaring flames and crackling terrified the woodland creatures. Young ones were being herded along; some followed their protective mothers, not understanding what this danger was all about. A sudden burst of flame shot up, engulfing a nearby tree right next to a mother fox and her young, rousted from their den. One by one, the trees began to burn.

 

The pounding and galloping of many hooves could be heard as the larger animals joined the small in their attempt to escape. Eyes wild, they ran into each other, dodging the burning trees. Above the crackling fire could be heard, the distinct and terrified cry of a lost fawn, calling helplessly to its mother until the cries slowly died away.

 

Hours later, the fire was burning itself out. The smoking remnants of trees, burnt brush, and darkened earth were all that remained of the once lush foliage. Many who did not survive lay out in the open with charred remains smoldering. Those who had hidden were dead in their final, burnt-out burrows and tree hollows. Some survivors had been blinded or were overcome with smoke, which scorched their eyes and their fragile lungs. Birds fluttered around nervously, having lost nests and young; they had suddenly lost all purpose. The sounds were much different than before the blaze, when happy morning songs had permeated the air; now they were replaced by strange twitters from the birds, and low cries from the woodland creatures.

 

Those animals displaced from homes in trees, shrubs, and burrows by the fires stood around nervously, searching for hiding places in the field outside the forest. Shared disaster brought the woodland creatures closer together than nature intended; they slowly walked away from their ruined forest in confusion. Their disorientation would bring them too close to the things of man.

© Julie A. Dickson

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Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson has been a poet for over 55 years and a YA fiction writer. She draws from memories, life experiences, nature, and visual art. Her work has been widely published in many journals, including Kind of a Hurricane Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, Feed the Holy, and MasticadoresUSA. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo.

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