The Poetryzine magazine presents the selected poems by the American poet Nina S. Padolf
Desert Storm: El Paso, Texas
Tormented by sand spit whipped skin
brutal sun dehydrates. IV fluids temporarily
replenish. Accustomed to three rivers and plenty of east coast
rain, she is foreign to this place where the Rio Grande divides.
Her active duty husband spends hours working
border patrol.
Captive to her new role, tears evaporate.
She quickly learns what gringo means.
She must take care of their ill daughter, spiked with fever
and dysentery.
Every time she goes outside, her skin
turns into leather.
Sacred Mescalero
(New Mexico)
Sacred is discovered where streets turn into dirt—
feet stand sturdy.
She rests at the crest of ancient New Mexico
where the road meets Mescalero Reservation.
Space erases stress from Desert Storm, and
my active duty husband’s border patrol in El Paso.
The handler places western saddles
on chosen horses for our adventure.
The chestnut brown muscular male horse
attempts to buck my husband off.
After a brief struggle, they make amends and move
forward up the trail.
My blond pregnant Palomino constantly grazes.
My body slides as she moves her thick
long neck for another nibble. I attempt to
convince her to stop, her round belly a reminder.
At 13,000 feet, engulfed by this majestic view
speaks to why she is so treasured.
Hawks seem small against the wide sky
Clouds below become her carpet.
In troubled times, I still hear her song strum—
Domestic Goddess
I smudged military spouse from my house
sent it on a permanent leave of absence.
Discovered window washing is for the rain.
Worn out wash clothes, spilled coffee,
a sink filled with dirty dishes
rinsed away wedding bliss.
I never believed in spotless homes,
dirt builds antibodies.
I am not against using bleach to get out stains
but if floors were meant to be eaten off of
why have tables and chairs?
Furry friends do a good job with crumbs.
I knew from an early age I would never
become a domestic goddess.
If you have allergies, wear a mask
or bring an inhaler.
House plants clean the air better than
a vacuum cleaner.
Clutter builds character.
The Unknown
Walter Reed
A mass formed in his upper left shoulder the size of a golf ball.
At first, we thought that he dislocated his shoulder during P.T.*
He is referred to a specialist at Walter Reed.
The biopsy reveals a desmoid tumor. Very rare, spreads fast,
it must come out.
After surgery, the doctor says, his borders are clear.
A chunk of his muscle and scapula is gone.
This tumor haunts like an unborn child.
He lifts weights to prove that he was strong enough to stay
in active duty status but the unthinkable happens a year later
confirms its return. Makes your heartbeat fast when
you hear that abrupt word,
Cancer.
There is a dip where blood fills the radiated cavity.
No matter how many times it’s drained
it forms like a placenta, permanently attached inside.
E7: Retired Veteran
Tenderness shifts with combat training
black lace boots tied tight—
brave soldiers only shed tears alone.
Drill sergeants make men out of boys—
no slackers make it out of basic training.
Real men don’t drink wine. They do shots—
Pressed between starched uniforms
lean body not afraid to die—
even after he returns to civilian life.
There is pride in his eyes—
an oath to serve and protect.
Nothing could have predicted
a rare tumor the size of a tennis ball
attached to his scapula. After two surgeries
with substantial muscle loss,
and chronic pain, he collects a small compensation
left with a road map on his back.
(Author’s Note: E7 is First Sergeant in the U.S. Army)
Broken
My friend tells me, she’s tired of being sad.
Her fawn eyes against bark night where headlights
decide fate of wildlife, settles onto the plate
of warmed glazed carrots.
Smear like the storm that pounded on the windshield
of the car that failed to slow down.
Leaves her broken.
Earth’s lungs are on fire.
The three-legged deer roams with her fawn
into city streets.
Our conversation leaps into forests
where we once played in plush land with eyes
wide opened---headlights blur.
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