Brett Haymaker

Brett Haymaker, a transplant from Northampton County, Pennsylvania, now lives and works in Chicago, Illinois with his wife and two dogs. His poems have been published in The Account, Rattapallax Magazine & The Philadelphia Inquirer. Brett is a UI Engineer, a part-time instructor and can be reached via twitter or his website. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Drew University and an undergraduate degree in English Literature from Drexel University. For more information visit Brett at foursatellites.com

Talking in Code

we slink under the gold bar

of light jutting out from the American

Colonial separating the disintegrating alley

behind my parent’s A-frame and the chain link fence

bordering Silver Creek Country Club

where Bethlehem Steel foremen play golf.

            We brush off the grass seed stuck to our legs, 

            bolted grass overgrown across the path

            giving way to a tennis court 

            with a single crack dividing its foundation into two 

            sinking platforms sliding from each other in opposite directions.

There, we huddled around small butane

flames, gurgled weed-smoke from 7-Up one

liter bottles rigged into gravity bongs,  kicked moss-

covered chunks of macadam at terrible owls 

we envisioned in the broken trees—

            the same darkness that—on this particular night—

            coaxes us past the sweet pork 

            smoke of the club house spit, 

            past the black herds of deer

            our tart odors drill up from stillness, 

            down the longest, darkest fairway until, finally, 

            we throw the salt of our bodies into the fanning moon—

            lit sprinklers watering hole #3 or hole #8.

We slink back, tip-toe through the smoke-

filled pines, their curved red needles;

scrape our bellies against the burred bottom teeth

of chain link fences; back, through the gold bar 

shifting now every couple seconds to white and red and blue;

back, through the sand-blasted basement doors.

Then, and only then, do we discuss what we think 

“pursuing golf,” means—or was it “the Persian Gulf?”—

until we fall asleep, mud caked in our ears. 

            Ah, to grow up.  We just couldn’t wait.

            Or was it “to blow up,” or "throw up,"—

            and instead of "could not wait," 

            was it just the TV stuttering, “Ku-Ku-Ku-"

            like we were babies it wanted to go back 

            to sleep? Except it was all ready

            too late. We learned 

            how to say it. "Ku-Ku-

            Kuwait."  Code for: hole #3 

            or hole #8. 

The migrator

Short story: my cousin—the one who OD’d on heroin

and then, finally, on methadone—was a piece of shit

who forced himself on me summer nights

after the dinner plates were dry, after all of the heroes were asleep,

when he repeated the word there as if a palpable joy

blossomed before him every time he said it. There, there.

                                                            There.

                                                There.

                                                                                    There.

But he also taught me how to choose the best

bait when fishing for blue crab; how to clam dig

at low tide; how to grind down the long handrail

of the church steps on rollerblades; when to start kicking

my feet to catch a wave just right; to let it carry me all the way in. 

Some still talk about him at Christmas parties.

A year after he passed, an uncle relayed a story of a butterfly

that set down on his arm and wouldn’t let go, that he knew it was

my cousin trying to send us a message, “ya know, like an angel.”

Maybe the massive butterfly migrations happen

because every oppressor becomes a Monarch

when they die, so they might experience a delicateness;

become the subject of a wind more forceful than their own;

to scour the inside of every sour milkweed bloom for redemption.

I wasn’t at the funeral, but I heard

there was no shortage of flowers.

As they lowered the ropes, the priest said,

“He just wanted to be loved.”  That was true.

And in my tiny, boyish way—I tried,

every year he came back, to stay

as still as I could when he landed on me

to taste me with his hands, to drink the nectar that never came.

I asked, “So where do you think he is now?”

and my uncle took his hands out of his pockets,

grabbed the back of my neck with one hand

and with the other he pointed at the sky

and said, “There.  Right

                                                there.”

For $75/hour, my Father breathes Benzene into the top halves 

of his lungs, 10:09 a.m., The Sunoco Refinery, Philadelphia, 

Pennsylvania, U.S.A.

Ya know      he says     

breathin' it in the open 

air isn't so bad

at that time we didn't know what it was any ways

at that time it looked like     like steam

the black guy working with me      he said

we should have masks on                  that 

that's probably not good to be breathin' in

but the big boss     the one I told ya about before

the one that didn't talk to me yet

he wanted that fluctuator control panel up and running

and I'll tell you what     we got it up and running

the whole thing       see      

the whole thing was wired wrong

the black guy working with me     he said

it's been like that for months

that every time it breaks down      they send a guy out to work on it

but they keep sending different guys

and each of them is walking into another guy's work

and they got to try to figure out what the other guy was thinking

basically     he's got to start over

there are a lot of rumors going around 

about a shut down

and some of the guys     not me      but

some of the guys are upset        I guess

about not getting their over-time and       I guess     

they are used to getting over-time all the time

see      and now they aren't getting it

they got used to living a certain way

and now    well     they got to live different

I started going back to church      I guess

your mother told you about that       she won't go with

                                                                                                the boss     

the one that hired me     he put up a board

asked us to put our names up if we're interested        

in over-time     see       and a few of the guys put theirs up

but not me      I didn't  put my name up 

I don't want to look like the greedy new guy

but my boss       he put my name up for me

I wouldn't mind working over

I really wouldn't

I'm starting to get familiar with the layout     ya know

where things are when people talk about them

things like    where the highway is       and      the river.

Watching It Happen

I have seen my mother 

scrape the last coal

stones into the furnace; 

seen her walk away

from the lit cab of the truck

and disappear into the night; 

seen her open every window

in the house with the dogs

alone barking at her ankles; 

seen her stand

over the toilet,

snipping her pubic hair,

cotton balls

between her toes,

singing 10,000 Maniacs

These are days

to her little boy;

seen her drag the suitcase 

off the edge of each step 

in tears, and I have 

seen her drag it, 

days later, back up;

seen her stumble at 3 a.m.

through a crumby kitchen,

eyes puffed and practically closed,

to make a ham and ketchup sandwich 

for his lunchbox;

seen her parked

across the street

from the AA house,

staring into the unfamiliar

crowd of men with longing.