Poetry: Selections from Peter Mladinic

The Stork

 

One afternoon I spoke intermittently, but 

mostly listened to Robin talk from Crane, 

Indiana, about whether to have the child

or not have the child she carried, a fetus 

a month old. Her parents didn’t know, I was

the first to hear of.  I walked a paved path

adjacent a four-lane road, phone to my ear.

 

The sky overcast, no threat of rain, close to

me, planted evergreens, to go with the walk.

On the other side of the road a Stripes, then

a white-steepled church, like a wide V, at a 

corner. Thinking of its shape reminds me of

the Vietnam memorial, designed by Maya 

Lin, I’ve only seen in pictures, only the wall

is black granite, with all the names. Between

 

Stripes and the church a Baptist student 

union, and past the church the start of a 

small religious college’s campus, it’s white 

buildings on a hill.  October, green fading 

from the grass, up there and down where I 

walked. Crane didn’t have a Stripes, only 

one 7-11; a hundred miles from Indianapolis,

where Robin had Elaine, new grandparents

Robin’s people waited in a corridor. I think

 

by then I was friends with her mom, but had 

never seen either woman, and still haven’t, 

seven years later. Elaine turns 7 in March.

But that day was October, the sky overcast 

as I walked up a little past the campus, then

turned around. By that time our talk had 

ended. Robin was thinking not to have 

Elaine, to see a doctor about the fetus, but 

she didn’t have the money. Maybe you 

should do that if you feel it’s best and get 

the money. Eventually her parents found out

and were upset, she kept it hidden from 

them for four months, she’s like that.  Like 

what?  To herself, one thing I liked. I thought:

you made me love you, a forty year old with

long hair I’d never met. I’ve never even spent 

 

a night in Indiana. You made me love you? 

I did that myself. She’s a single mom, a bit of 

gray in her hair, a job at a place where they 

grow weed; it’s legal. Before I met her, 

online, friend of a friend I knew here in Niles,

New Mexico, she was a dealer’s mule. She 

loves her daughter, whom she carried inside 

as she talked.  I walked past evergreens

 

that were a brake between path and road 

and on the other side the white steeple. I 

think of the names on Maya Lin’s wall, a girl

age nine, going up to the wall with pencil 

and paper and shading in a name. I spoke 

on the phone with Robin two days after she

had Elaine, no complications, there she lay, 

in Indianapolis, an infant at her breast. 

The Birth of a Nation

 

Miriam is better looking than Evelyn?  In 

some pictures, Evelyn’s upper lip puffs 

slightly bigger than the lower. That’s Evelyn 

from an angle. Full face, the pictures..

amazing, a face could be “that” beautiful.

She’s “the” Gibson girl, hair piled, or, let

down, dark tresses enfold the fairest face.

At 14 a model men write to, paw, and beg.

A child, and her mom encouraging it. Then

the Stanford White murder she had nothing 

to do with. The trial, the crazy husband.  

She’s only 19.  Everyone says Evelyn Nesbit, 

all her life used by men.  She didn’t say it. 

Nor had she self pity. She managed. Got by. 

In a 1933 short, a beer hall broad belts 

a jaunty tune, Evelyn: at 14 the girl in the red 

velvet swing, at 19 Mrs. Harry Thaw. This

classical aquiline nose, high cheekbones in 

a face longer than Evelyn’s oval, belong 

to Mariam Cooper, lecturer, author of Dark 

Lady of the Silents, Margaret in The Birth of 

a Nation, an epic film of Deep South evil: 

poison in juleps.  Eyes peak over a fan..stirs 

the air.  The belle on a verandah looking out 

for her KKK—is you, Mariam in a doorway 

the Colonel’s daughter, elder sister in a light 

gown, her long hair’s sheen all for valiant 

riders.  Their mounts’ hooves raise dust, 

Klan terrorists.  In DeMille’s before-talkies, 

extras, actors, everyone is silent. Off set, 

shooting for today finished, she asks Raoul 

Walsh, her husband,  Where are we going? 

X

Mr. Gordon came in one Monday and said

he’d talked with Malcolm X, I’m not sure

for how long, but I could tell he thought it

significant, we knew who Malcolm X was.

Our room seemed shaded, with good light

coming through windows like slits, long,

rectangular. I sat near them, Mr. Gordon’s

desk was also near that light, it was as if

ours was a corner of light and shade, like

a basement, only it was the ground floor.

 

Paul Arthur was in that class, who,  years 

later, with his knowledge of film taught me

to appreciate the genius of Yasujiro Ozu.

But Paul and I didn’t know each other then,

in high school years, in Mr. Gordon’s class.

Mr. Gordon’s interest in things outside our

room genuine and keen, one day he asked

about people in the city, lying stupefied

in doorways and near trash-littered curbs.

Why were they there, drunk and listless?

 

I said because they were lazy. Another boy,

Michael Epstein,  indignantly replied they’re

not lazy!  Mr. Gordon agreed with Michael.

My answer, based on what my father said.

Were they lying drunk in doorways because

they were lazy, these people, some women,

mostly men, who looked more like Malcolm

than like Mr. Gordon? Today my answer to

why they were there like that would be it’s

complicated. That day in 1964 in our room

my answer was “lazy.”  I hesitate to admit

I was wrong. The question didn’t call for an

either/or answer. I felt embarrassed, not by

Mr. Gordon but by the mood of the class.

All I know is Mr. Gordon said he’d talked to

Malcolm X. We all knew who Malcolm was.

Mr. Gordon had thick wavy wiry hair. Black

framed glasses, thick lips, and olive skin.

He’d gone into the city to a political rally

over the weekend, Malcolm gave a speech.

 

Mr. Gordon cared about racism, he cared 

about poverty, crime, injustice. Like Malcolm

he was dissatisfied with how things were.

So was Michael Epstein, and, I suspect, Paul

Arthur, whom I never knew then, but got to

before Paul died. He mentored me so I knew

good from bad cinema. But why were 

people lying in doorways and along curbs in 

the city?  I answered and felt embarrassed.

I wonder what Malcolm X would have said.

Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is available from Better Than Starbucks. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.