RESISTANCE
When the hand comes to rest
on my shoulder, I won't turn around,
or smile, or open my arms to it.
I won't willingly rise,
death's easy trick of levitation,
from the table laid out before me,
some meat I've prepared, some
prepared by others, the drink
poured by all who came before.
I'll finish the meal, savor the last
drop of wine and ask for more.
I'll argue the time is not right,
a mistake has been made. I'll call
names, scream embarrassing insults,
then dig fingers into the underside
of the chair, clamp teeth on anything
that comes near, slam my head
against their chin, the bridge of their nose.
Strong-armed angels, four at least,
will grip beneath each arm
and leg, pry at fingers
untwist feet from legs of chair,
and I'll use my words again to beg,
cajole, sing them into submission
for just one more second,
as if I had something
worth fighting to the death.
FOURTH AUTUMN
This November Sawyer stands
in a shower of leaves, first
the ones falling, then those
the blower sprays her with. Defiant,
joyful, unafraid of noise
or getting lost in any storm,
she lies down, begs to be buried
beneath the trappings of decay,
oblivious to suggestion or symbol.
It's so far she has come from three
autumns ago, sitting in a backpack
while I raked leaves into piles,
or two years ago riding in the wheelbarrow
between dumping and filling up,
or even last year's first jumping
into massive piles of oak and maple.
And now, while she is unconcerned
with irony, I can't escape it myself,
such joy, such flouting in the face of death.
Author of six collections of poetry and over 600 poems
published in journals and anthologies, Scott Owens is editor of Wild Goose
Poetry Review , Vice President of the Poetry
Council of North Carolina, and recipient of awards from the Pushcart Prize
Anthology, the Academy of American Poets, the NC Writers' Network, the NC
Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC. He holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro and currently teaches at
Catawba Valley Community College.
