Poetry: Selections from Christopher Sturdy

I Slept as a Defense Tactic

After Khadijah Queen’s “I Slept When I Couldn’t Move”

 

I slept in Grandma’s den. My hand cupped in hers, 

a nested egg. Tie blanket & her hum strum lullaby 

of the only Swedish songs I remember.

 

I slept in between my parents’ calves, back when

their bed wasn’t full of dusty boxes and cat piss, 

back before cancers & debt ripped our house in two.

 

I slept in the tub with Dad, brushing his hair

after one of his waves of nausea, the ones chemo

gave him, the ones he still gets.

 

I slept in a ritzy Minneapolis condo with a woman who defined love 

as infatuation, & every time I woke up next to her I felt 

undeserving—not of her—but of the comfort streaming in 

through the window, like her trust fund rented the sun.

 

I slept after getting roofied & woke up trembling next to 

shame & muscle spasms.

 

I slept as a defense tactic.

 

I slept at Aaron’s & Kendall’s & Scott’s & Larin’s 

when their parents didn’t know.

 

I slept under foot stomps & sounds of throttled throats & knew 

not to call it love.

 

I slept coke-hearted under a park bench pattering 

in and out of dreams, sweat pooling on the nape of my neck 

in between shivers & fogged breath.

 

I slept with my arms around a human I loved & took it for granted.

I slept with my arms around a human I loved & didn’t take it for granted.

 

I feigned sleep as a hand fumbled around 

my waistband hoping my silence was loud enough.

 

I slept as a defense tactic.

 

I slept in the mountains and woke to layers 

of amber & silt & salmon.

 

I didn’t sleep much during the years my family used words 

like mastectomy & melanoma & metastasis. I can’t 

sleep like I did before them.

 

I slept next to my brother while he played 

video games with stick clicks & mashed buttons.

 

I slept in a sleeping bag, all tattered & broken 

zipper at a church lock-in where homophobia was planted 

in us like palm trees on the way to the crucifixion.

 

I slept with my head in my sister’s lap as she traced 

my buzz cut like new constellations for the night sky.

 

I slept in basement forts of pillows & sheets 

with friends & ticklish laughter & innocent 

love while boys at school defined 

their favorite slur as a pile of sticks.

 

I slept as a defense tactic.

 

I never slept while Grandma was dying. I held her 

hand & read her poems against the soft whir of machines.

Eventually, I fell asleep humming her lullaby, a defense 

playing in my head even if I don’t remember the words.

Pharmaceutically Inclined

If we’re done lying to ourselves, we should admit 

our silence the year Davey took a baseball bat to his shin, 

effectively reupping his Percocet prescription. Truth: we liked 

 

the percs perks. Truth: we liked the power 

to turn off life with a pill and malt liquor, scrambling 

life’s rabbit ears until we reached that fuzzy, warbled frequency. 

 

The warm drone swallowed our attention. Lie: I don’t think about that 

feeling anymore. That humdrum numb-

ness we won state with that year, Davey crutched 

 

up on the sidelines, eyes melted together like street tar, 

his smile see-sawing, and our bodies cracking at the line 

of scrimmage, personalized car crashes dulled 

 

by perky local anesthetic. I’ll admit, sometimes 

I think about his moment of contemplation. The bat

shivering above his head as he figures out what he’s capable of.

 

If we’re done lying to ourselves, we deserve this 

week of constant acid reflux as we all wonder 

if maybe we’re somewhat responsible for Davey’s blue 

 

face and rubber hose bicep cuff. At least we got that 

picture from 2005, our forefingers up high, grasping 

for the trophy. We got that picture at that school 

 

we’re all too old and afraid to visit anymore. 

Truth: I almost told someone 

once. Truth: I almost told someone before 

 

we won state. Lie: I don’t think about that

 feeling anymore. That feeling of almost saying it 

out loud. After his funeral, my parents asked if I knew.

 

I held my forefinger up high, faking for a moment 

to gather myself. And then all I wanted to do was go back 

to that school, empty halls and shattered plexiglass at my feet,

 

holding that damn trophy above my head, contemplating

what I’m capable of, wondering 

if I have it in me to break it like a shin.

Night Shift

Your room door squeaks like a bleating lamb. You don’t 

wear it yet. You don’t know what it is, but the boys

 

at baseball have been talking about what they saw

in the house behind the homerun fence. Your dad

 

snores in conversation with old episodes of Dirty Jobs. 

Your dad, bearded, shirtless in the recliner,  

 

his chest the color of slate, chiseled, reminds you you’re soft, flubby. 

Coach says this is bad, but dad doesn’t say anything, which feels 

 

worse. Lately, you’ve been trying to deepen your voice to command 

thunder like your dad. You get a few sentences in only for lightning 

 

to crack your throat back to its church mouse whisper. Outside, 

you run. New moon darkness sucking street lamps into nightmares. 

 

A hundred yards past the outfield, the rickety rambler—all chipped paint 

and faded brick—holds spent casings, plastic bags, and used needles 

 

in the palm of the porch. The windows glistening gold, a secret 

or dream or joke or promise—alluring in the night, this burning 

 

medallion of the dark. Through the first floor window, you see 

coats of armor lining the walls labeled by what you assume 

 

is weight: five, fifteen, thirty, eighty. The blacksmith, his back turned 

to you as he hammers iron on anvil, metal bending to his will, a firestorm 

 

forge to reheat, and water to finalize form. He flings the first piece behind 

him. A thunk. A tumble. A roll. A haggard helm—sleek, steel, with slats

 

for eyes, two pools holding the night’s terrors, waiting to shroud 

the head of boy or man. An electricity flings from you, delightful 

 

energy, a pain-free promise disguising poison as pleasure. 

Your limbs shock into motion, you reach out only to thump 

 

knuckle to glass, then retract. The hammering halts, eyes on you, 

not the swampy helm holes, but the blacksmith’s, reddened retinas 

 

leaking from iris. The electricity railroads to your lungs, skipping, 

spiking, seeing the beard, the chest, the blacksmith. Junior? The voice 

 

of your father through the eyes of war. You run. Home. Away from armor 

that will beckon for your return. Back to a father you hope is reclined

 

where he should be.

Aubade for where we choose to plant flowers

It can take two to five years

for daffodils to bloom.

 

When starting from scratch, daffodils must grow

indoors for at least a year. It’s always best to use

fresh, rich potting soil. Pick a spot in your home

where it can get a half day’s worth of sunlight.

Mist the soil daily to keep it damp. Pay attention 

to the bulbets, as you’ll need to repot them when

they outgrow the current pot. I know this 

 

because the girl who carries seeds in her pocket taught me.

She says you never forget the first time you see 

Daffodils bloom. She says to imagine sitting in its petals

like a warm bath. You get to wake up each day 

and their yellow heads grin and follow you,

small sunshines caught in your shadow.

 

Each morning, I visit the girl who carries

seeds in her pocket. Each morning, I test my memory

of all the plants she keeps: palm tree, peppermint, peace lily. 

Each morning, we sip coffee and practice yoga 

and read poetry out loud. Each morning, before I leave, 

I ask to see the seeds she’s selected 

today. Beady piles cupped in her hands, she tells me 

the names: Orchid, Bluebonnet, Daffodil.

 

I’ll probably mess this up, but I’m practicing

relationships as yardwork. You see, her yard

is—to put it bluntly—a cemetery. Tall Shumard Oaks

bury her driveway in a blanket of honey and rust.

Leaves suffocate her grass into dehydrated yellow tufts, 

brittle arms extending through quicksand, begging for one 

final dose of sunlight. Her gutters cough 

up deciduous Hickory and Magnolias, and all of this 

is to say, Where will she plant

the seeds?

 

I rake her leaves like a graveyard 

groundskeeper, forming piles of refuse

into burial plots, revealing rich soil underneath.

 

I’ve filled a few yard waste bags before her

spindly forest fingers wrap my wrists like vines, her hair,

smelling of burnt sage and rosemary, climb

my shoulders and neck like ivy. I point to the dirt

I’ve piled. For your seeds. You can plant

in fresh soil.

 

A finger to my lips. Her free hand plucks

seed from pocket, holds it up for me to inspect.

Daffodil, she says. I point to the soil for planting.

She shakes her head once, twice, pulls at my chin

to open my mouth, pressing seed to tongue,

and closing. There was delight in the closing,

the planting, the choice.

 

And I realize she’s practicing relationships

as gardening. And I remember,

it can take two to five years 

for daffodils to bloom.

 

 

 

 

Christopher Sturdy resides in Minneapolis, MN where he teaches creative writing at Hiawatha Collegiate High School. When he’s not teaching, he can be found with a soccer ball at his feet in an attempt to see if “he’s still got it” or guzzling down an espresso tonic to appease his mostly under control caffeine addiction. His poetry can be found in Press Pause Press and Emerge Literary Journal. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram