Poetry: Selections from Dani N. Kuntz

Gray Alexandrine

At the red-brick ranch house, decades old, my mother

Lay in the hospice bed—or hospital bed—dropped

Smack-dab in the middle of the living room, dust-

Ridden, mostly untouched, until this pivotal

Phase in her life; there she lay emaciated,

No better word, really, and one must pity her

At this point if not any other, but all they

Get in return is anger and bitterness—this

Is not a narrative by which the death-bedder

Comes to an epiphany, or guilt, or regret—

Because at this point, she can barely even speak

And I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d

See her conscious, MeTV flashing at the foot

Of the bed, and this was shortly before Mother’s

Day—I know—so I had picked up a small flower

Arrangement for her, from Kroger, that had one of

Those stick decorations, which was a bear that had

“Mama Bear” printed on it, as close as I could

Find to “Mama Bird,” what she actually liked

To go by, regardless of her lack of caring

For those in her family; I can’t recall what

I talked to her about, but I remember that

Some actor on TV was playing Abe Lincoln

And Mama said she was hungry and asked me to

Make her an egg sandwich—her last wish—so I did

Though I never really cooked for her, she never

Taught me how, but I would have done anything then,

Which I did; I left the house to drive back to school

And within a week, she was in the hospital

For good, permanently sedated, us silent.

Contemporary Ode for the Father

There’s something to be said about a father’s love—

and I’m sorry for those who don’t know it—

especially when most used to a mean mother’s love

and that, flavoring your whole life, taints

every future relationship. Yet a father has a hidden

softness almost better than one visible.

My dad, I recently understood, saves all

the pictures I send him. My family-man

brother let me join the group of digital frame-holders

which seems pertinent now that I live over one thousand

miles away, and all the images Dad shares are so familiar

I think, when I realize they’re all mine;

Low-resolution photos of Alcatraz Island from the ferry deck,

pictures from the one trail I’ve walked since I moved here,

quality no matter,

and even the single existing selfie of me and my partner.

We’re not a photo-taking couple

but that’s okay

because his father loves him just like mine, me.

He was adopted, for God’s sake.

If you’re gonna pay that much money, you’re

usually going to love that kid and raise them right.

Yes, my partner with no trauma, no reason

to feel unfamiliar except for his mother’s

untimely death years ago; My father was also adopted, but of trauma

he has plenty. That’s undoubtedly a section

of the domino effect that led to his binge-drinking,

his hard exterior,

his ability to fuck with anybody. Dad,

like us all, is not the best. He’s not

a role model parent in the way you see on suburban sitcoms.

But he loves me so much that he roots for me, writes me

cards, lives with me through saving all my photos

and my experiences even while I’m commanding him to resist,

to not go on another two-week blackout binge, to keep himself alive

because he’s almost there and my only constant.

Blood War

And there was the day

shortly after I turned sixteen

when my mom took me

to donate blood for the first time,

because I wanted to,

and I was so delighted with myself

doing big-girl things during

my summer transition,

the most stressful time of my life,

and I remember when we pulled

up to the strip mall with the blood

institute, beige cement to match

my mom’s tan Ford Explorer,

and I’m taken back to a small room

after a short wait

where I fill out a questionnaire.

This is where I learn to lie

to healthcare workers.

Because I put yes—

I am too truthful—

Yes, I have had sex with a man

who’s had sex with a man,

because that disqualifies me,

because when the nurse says we

can tell my mom my heartrate

was too high, and she takes me back,

I get in the car with my mom

who is confused. Because I tell her

the truth because she told me

I always could tell her anything,

because when I tell her that yes

I’ve fucked a dude who’s

had sex with a dude, she says Oh,

my God, because You treat your body

like you’re a whore, Danielle

and she drives us home oh my

godding the whole way, shaking

her head, and that was the day

I chose to be a whore—might as well

if I already do whore things; meaning

that was the first day of my sexual

emancipation and Lord

I pray that all women,

then,

can be whores.

Dani N. Kuntz is an Arkansas-born child of the world, a MFA-CW Poetry candidate at UNR Lake Tahoe (formerly Sierra Nevada College), and a graduate of Hendrix College where she studied English-CW. Currently, Dani is a freelance writer & Managing Editor of Sierra Nevada Review, with a full-time job tutoring children. Her work has appeared in eMerge Magazine and Auvert Magazine, and she is no stranger to rejection. Using their poetry & essays, Dani hopes to achieve a sense of empathy with readers.