Russell Rowland

Teething

Present troubles are Fantasia over again:
that Sacre du Printemps sequence, when
jagged shards of rock stabbed through
the convulsive crust of primordial Earth.

Teeth must erupt.  What can parents do?
Sympathy is lost on Emma.  Not a thing
but amelioration, which they can’t give.
She will need, after all, her set complete.

We love our bodies; who hurts us worse?
Impotence of rage is the lesson learned,
acquiescence to suffering the alternative,
save for those whose equalizer is a gun.

Aunt Betty’s older life brightens and dims
with the red blood cells, and transfusions
won’t save her in the end.  She is serene
toward callers: “I’m better off than some.”
Russell Rowland is a recent grandfather, and a trail volunteer in New Hampshire’s Lakes Region.  A seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he is a past winner of Old Red Kimono’s Paris Lake Poetry Contest, and twice winner of Descant’s Baskerville Publishers Poetry Prize, and of the Plainsongs Award.  His chapbook, “Train of All Cabooses,” was published by Finishing Line Press. 

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