James Hochtritt has been a featured reader of his poetry at venues in California and Oklahoma over the years. He holds a Ph.D. in History from the University of Oklahoma and is a full-time professor of history at Rose State College in Midwest City, Oklahoma. He lives and writes in Midwest City.

EXETER, CALIFORNIA

He monitors smudge pots,
Shadows illuminating his face,
Black smoke burning his eyes.
A pungent aroma of citrus mixes
With an acrid blend of chemicals
Whose names he cannot pronounce.
His thoughts drift in and out,
Recollect his youth in Zihuatanejo,
Christmas memories, novenas, orphans,
Focus on the antics of a spotted dog
That ambles beside him.

Looking up at stars he fondles a small cross
On a silver chain around his neck,
Brings it to his lips as a gesture of faith.
Wishes he was back in bed
And the soft breathing of his wife.
Inhaling the bite of the night frost,
He squints at ornaments and candy-colored lights
Strung like a necklace around a house,
Counts three blessings for each of his children.

Disconnected from the earth in December’s dark
He dreams of home and his father.
Prays for those
Who bleed and give birth in the fertile soil of the fields
Among the insects and the furrows.
Hates that he understands
That men like him are necessary,
Harnessed mules, machinery,
Hands that sow what others reap.
The puzzling chasm that lies between
That which is holy and merely human.

VOTIVE

Passer’s by and visitors, strangers, reporters,
Relatives fold paper flowers and mementos
Into the honeycomb of the cyclone fence.
Tie ribbons onto wire, tape poems to poles,
Paste locks of hair onto photographs
Wrapped in angels made of foil.
Morning, noon, and night the vigil evolves
The guilt-ridden who survived, tourists,
The inquisitive and curious,
Weak knees, helplessness, countenance transfixed,
Palms and faces pressed against the barrier,
Introspection above the hole.
Low whispers barely audible,
Prayers to the beloved, Eucharist
For the grieving, comfort for the anguish.
Our penitence an epitaph,
Speechlessness, invocation of the lost,
Liturgy of tears, consecration of rubble.
Without pause, the requiem,
The mournful eulogy continues,
Watery eyes like reflecting pools or grottos,
Blank stares articulating silence,
Inability of the living to sanctify with words
The blasphemy of the aftermath.

HOUSE

Apologies were never enough.
Words flew like sparks from her mouth,
Her arms flapping up and down
Like some apoplectic bird.

Fixed in the cross hairs
Of her cubist eyes,
Her smeared lipstick
Angled her face into a cockeyed shape.
It was advisable to not say a word
But bob and flinch, hunch and cower.
Grit the teeth
Amidst the knickknacks
Swept from their places,
The shattered glass,
Interminable silences
Simmering like steam.
Ride it out the best a child could
Within the confines of the cage,
Until rage flattened to tears
And the claws retracted.

Only then was it safe
To venture a breath,
Feign a posture of guilt
With a downward glance
And tip-toe past the beast
Through the rancor and the ashes,
Escape into the fields
And the kisses of the rain.