AT THE HOP
ALM No.66, July 2024
POETRY
At the Hop
After the game there is always
a soc hop in the gym: we dance
the stroll, the funky slop, the jitterbug,
the bunny-hop, and still find time
to twist and shout. Bill Halley, a kiss
curl on his forehead, starts us all
rocking around the clock, girls wet
their pants screaming at a fat man,
weighed down by diamonds, who
finds his thrill on Blueberry Hill,
the Everly Brothers singing “Wake up,
Little Susie,” Ricky Nelson of the
dreamy bedroom eyes, Little Richard
of the foot-high flattop, Jerry Lee Lewis
mangling his piano, pretty boy Frankie
Avalon in suit and tie asking Venus
to enter his lonely life, but most of all at
Elvis of the swivel hips and kiss me lips,
putting down his friends as hound dogs
while making the jailhouse rock,
and we all cry when Buddy Holly and
the Big Bopper perish in a plane crash.
Yet, contra Don McLean’s “American Pie,”
to this day the music never dies.
I Wanted to Ask You to Lunch
Standing in the classroom window
I watch you walk to school
red coat bright as my heart
gum where my tongue should be
hugging your books to your breasts
Strolling to the water fountain
out of the corner of my eye
I watch you taking notes
Out of the corner of your eye
you note me watching you
Passing in the hall after class
I want to ask you to lunch
with small talk I bait you to pause
you nibble then squirm down stream
off to another man’s house
Of Hoops and Hopes
My Dad once told me I had
the best jump shot he ever saw,
a testimony to how few games
he’d seen yet a touching tribute
any son would treasure.
Back before the three-point line,
I had a smooth long-distance stroke,
not only on my jump shot but also
a one-hand set shot, another one-hand shot
that resembled the motion of a layup,
and a two-hand set shot Dolph Shayes
taught me—his professional trademark.
By the time the three-point line arrived
my hops were gone along with
what might-have-been.
Saint Sebastian
Saint Sebastian might as well
be pairing his fingernails for all
the pain he shows as arrows turn
his skin into a pin cushion.
I remember how Jamie and I
in a Spanish art museum, not
the Prado, burst out laughing
after viewing several paintings
of Saint Sebastian displaying
his insouciant indifference
to repeated perforations.
How can we know a fish
is weeping? How can we
believe in Sebastian’s wounds
if he doesn’t give a fig to
show his exquisite agony?
William Heath has published three poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, and Going Places; two chapbooks: Night Moves in Ohio and Leaving Seville; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, and Blacksnake's Path; a work of history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); and a collection of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone. He lives in Annapolis. www.williamheathbooks.com