Writer & Creative
honeycomb
I hold it all petrified
in the hive of my abdomen
the holes have all caved in
a hollow whisper:
the time you pulled
honey from my lips
I often forget I was once home
to a hive of 60,000
buzzing, dancing chit chat over orange wine
I know, still, inside of me
there is bread
sheep’s cream, honeycomb
maybe an olive or two
poppy fields and nectarines
a light breeze
a gentle touch
-- parker ewing
creosote
In phoenix, Freda sits
in her peach loveseat,
bowl of ice resting
firmly in her lap
the desert heat
is white hot, deaf
you can practically hear
children pressing
their flushed cheeks
to the concrete floor
she still wears nylons
her toes twist
around each other
like carrots, planted
too close together
she tells her grandkids
of the jackalope
who scares even the coyotes
and the javelina, she says
you’ll smell well before
you catch a glimpse
she never told a soul
of the man from buckeye
who drove her to
planned parenthood
1947, a mere mirage
like that on the base
of the superstition mountains
that summer in tanque verde
he burned his back
on the chevy’s seatbelt,
tang of sweat
and tongues
stained from watermelon eegee’s
and crinkle-cut fries
in the valley
where the camel rests
in the center of town
and the saguaro can live
for two centuries,
just know: there are monsoons
but once the roof quiets
the creosote sings
the adobe turns pink
the jackrabbit wriggles its nose
and dries its cheeks.
-- parker ewing
between us
I think about us
driving to Joshua Tree to see the constellations
splattered like toothpaste on the mirror of our motorhome
let’s unfold the map, still wrinkled in our glove box
next to that bag of sunflower seeds and your pocket knife
pass me a strip of beef jerky while I drive,
feed the root beer straw into my mouth
we could stop at a citrus grove,
take a couple for the road
pull over at the base of the Old Woman Mountains
get drunk off gas station wine
but these days you prefer to stay home
work in the yard, change the channel
and I sit here looking at the snow-capped hills
wondering where you’ve been
for the past 30 years
-- parker ewing
petersburg, 2017
Sometimes I dream
I’m back in Masha’s flat
the night I took my last cab
through Moskovksy Prospekt
cherry-red lipstick on my cheek.
Nastya, in her pink eyeliner, trench coat
rolling a cherry tobacco cigarette,
twinkle in the darks of her eyes
like that of a mischievous child
about to touch something she is
not supposed to, I like how it looks,
to smoke, can you take a picture?
Masha, in her red beret and turtleneck,
setting out a plate of soft cheese,
green grapes, ripe banana
and pouring three glasses of table wine
from Abkhazeti, as she asks me
if I’ve ever considered
taking my clothes off on camera.
Nastya, throwing her head back
laughing as they look at each other,
eyes glimmering in the yellow candle light.
Sometimes I dream about saying yes.
-- parker ewing
lentil soup
The onion has become
translucent silk,
I cradle its pieces
with a wooden spoon
in the steel pot
she’s used for years
How much of each spice should I put in?
I catch her staring out into the yard,
watching the rainwater
drip from table’s edge,
the dog licking its moisture
Whatever you think honey
she says, turning back to me
and half-smiling
as if she is not yet done
looking inward,
not yet released
from the reminder
of her fickle heart,
delicate as a lace doily
fluttering off a picnic table
and into the wind
I shake the containers,
aware of too much
and not enough
turmeric, chili powder,
paprika, cayenne,
just a dash of cumin,
I remember her once
telling me it can be bitter
and I realize
she will not always be here
to tell me how long
to let things simmer
or to sneak into the garden
and place our first ripe tomato
into the crease of my palm.
Let me ladle soup into your bowl,
I’ll squeeze the lemon from our tree,
chop the most fragrant parsley
I can find from the local market,
grate the parmesan you like
over the top, and watch it melt,
like tissue taken to a flame
and when I place the bowl
into your hands, let me linger
there for a second, and feel
the ridges of your knuckles
and the softness of your skin.
-- parker ewing
the woman from apartment 2D
I made love
under
the stairwell
with the soul
of the woman
from apartment 2D
who decided
to take the dogs out
at midnight
on a Friday
and walked in
on his dick
against my lips.
She had brown hair
always in a 90s scrunchie,
and four little dogs,
with matted fur,
an old couch she
offered me once,
and I wanted to run
into her arms
and say, finally
you’re here,
you have
no idea
the day I’ve had,
can we heat up
the tea pot
and curl up
on that couch of yours
and watch some reruns
of Law & Order,
while your dog
with the tongue
that doesn’t fit
in his mouth
pants heavily
on my lap?
-- parker ewing
the day I sprouted wings
I sat on warm, gray concrete
drawing swirls of neon chalk,
listening to the gentle
creak of the swingset
I sat there in a cradle of shell bits
twigs, grass, leaves
woven into my hair
and I knew
on this day
I would climb that swing
fly forward and back
until I could touch
the afternoon sun.
I knew
when I jumped
my wings would extend
just like they were supposed to
and I would be weightless
the wind would take me
and dandelions would be lollipops
clouds, cotton candy
and all the gulls
and hummingbirds
would say, welcome
to our secret hideout,
this is the password! and
the smallest one would whistle
from her mother’s underbelly
do you want a rainbow gumball?
-- parker ewing