“Hello, everyone! I am so happy to be here to host our first High Noon Poetry Slam!”
Everyone clapped politely including me. “We have fourteen poets who will be reading their work to us this evening. I have been asked to read for an anonymous western poet so will do that in a bit. First up is Miss Millicent Mulligan who is going to recite her poem, ‘The Pickles Lament,’ which is a poem about pickling I assume. Miss Millie, you’re first.” An old, old, old woman made her way to the microphone. Aubrey lowered it for her then stepped aside, his arm tight to mine.
“In a jar rich filled with summer brine,
They dream of being back on the vine…”
I glanced down at Aubrey who was listening intently, glasses on the tip of his nose, as Miss Millie recited her poem about pickles. I was not going to tease or make fun. Most of my work was about a red pony, dusty trails, or recently a certain brown-eyed man with a flair for wild fashion.
“…yet when the meal is dull and long,
A pickle sings its sour song.
Oh humble spear, oh wrinkled cuke,
Your taste is worthy of a duke!
Praise the brave pickle, kneel down and fawn,
For come dessert our pickle shall be gone.”
Aubrey clapped boisterously. I applauded politely. Poems about gherkins weren’t my favorites but Miss Millie had done a good job of honoring her adored kosher dills.
“That was interesting,” I whispered beside Aubrey’s cute ear.
“It was inspired by a jar of sweet bread and butter pickles she once had that appeared to have the face of Bea Arthur amid theslices.” My eyes flared. “So she told me. Well done, Miss Millie!” Off he went to guide the old woman to a stool to rest then introduce another poet. This one was a bit more boisterous, a young woman of about twenty, who was all about radical change and freedom for hamsters. Several more poets read their work, we all clapped and said kind words to them even if the topic of the verse was a little avant-garde. Like about pickles, or free-roaming hamsters. I wasn’t sure hamsters would survive long in the wilds of Colorado…
Aubrey peeked up at me above the top of his glasses.
“You’re next. If you’d like to tell me which of your works to read I can?—”
“I can do it.” I gripped my journal as I glanced at the brave poets who had gone before me. Miss Millie, Hamster Girl, Lady who wrote about Flowers, Man Who Wrote About Fly Fishing. They were all proud of their work. If they could do it so could I. “I can do it.”
“Are you sure?” Aubrey asked as a middle-aged guy in a running suit read out his haiku about his Siberian husky.
“Yeah, I’m sure. If I can sit on the back of a bull I can read a poem.”
He radiated pride. “Yes you can. Okay, I’ll introduce you next. Well done, Mr. Milkman! Your dog Poda sure does love the snow!”
The cool night air blew over the back of my neck as someone entered the shop. “Now we have a true cowboy to recite some of his modern western works. Please welcome Hoyt Knox to the microphone.”
My heart was pounding. Grasping my journal to my chest, I stepped out of the shadow of the bookshelf. I instantly sought out Aubrey who beamed at me. Eyes on the old-fashioned mic I planted my big feet on the wooden floor planks, opened my book, and swallowed about a gallon of spit.
The store was quiet as they all waited for me to begin. If I read any of the newer ones it would out me to the town possibly. If I stuck to pony poems it wouldn’t be bad at all. I was tempted to just read a red roan work. Then I glanced up to find Aubrey smiling at me with such unabashed admiration that I flipped to the poem I’d written three days ago. Then my sight darted to the man beside Aubrey. My brother, Jesse, and his Lucas. They were holding hands. Right here in downtown Chance in front of God and everyone. Fuck me that was the bravest thing I’d seen in years. Jesse nodded at me. I nodded back. Then I read.
“The vista gleams purple, red, and blue,
His smile warms me through,
We ride red ponies, wind in faces,
The touch of his hand, one of god’s graces.”
The crowd clapped. I closed my journal, Aubrey’s sweet face all I could see as I stepped back from the microphone to allow the host to step up.
“I like you and your work so danged much,” Aubrey whispered to me as he passed by to introduce the next poet.
“I like you so danged much too,” I replied on a soft rustle that made his ears turn bright pink. Then, because he was here to support me, I made my way through wine drinkers and poet laureates to my brother. “Thought you were heading to the Saddle Up for dinner.”
