Sample Poems by Margaret Chula

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Oh, How I Love an Elk


the grandeur of antlers, the bugle
of saints wandering in the wilderness

and musk, oh the musk that leaves
no question of supremacy.

Mayor of hobos, you preside over
woodlands and meadows—trample

bitter root and blood-red sumac
without malice, forethought, or regret.

Something antediluvian is in the air:
the smut of bark, rut of bucks

at the equinox moon, the flickering tongue
of decay as green slumps into brown.

How do you survive, cloven-hoofed wapiti,
your felted flesh coveted by hunters

who stalk the woods at dawn
to pierce the cage of your marrow?

I wish I knew how to bugle, to move
with ease through the seasons,

how to raise my downcast head
and listen to the loons wail.

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Lure

Metolius River, Oregon


Mayfly nymph
you tunnel through
sludge and sediment,
molt into wings that spike
toward the light. Up like a tiny
fruit husk, you drift on water, suck up
wind into flight, give in to dawn that will
lift you like a tumbleweed hardly noticed
in the desert’s sage, mole’s scurry, the grip
of a hawk’s talons around the belly of a mouse.

I watch your wings, delicate and unsure, lift
the tracery of your body. Unaware of enemy
or air current that can raise and drop you like
dandelion fluff, you are lured to the ghost
of yourself, floating like a feather from
a taut line attached to a pole, held by
a hand, work-worn and sunburnt,
fingers clenched around desire
as you spiral down to mate
with yourself.

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Drought


River rocks surface, smooth and dry.
The boy stands on shore skipping stones,
disturbing the water’s stillness.
Later, he’ll throw Frisbees, softballs,
and tantrums when called in for supper—

of snap peas, tomatoes, sweet corn,
and the final firing of the grill.
Afternoon shadows eclipse the lavender,
pale and thirsty. Peppermint leaves sprawl
like rabbits dozing in the hawthorn’s shadow.

The boy longs for an encore of inner tubes
and swimming holes. For grass so soft
he can take off his shoes—as if there
were no mosquitoes or yellow jackets
or returning to school.

As if he hadn’t seen his mother cry
in a shaft of sunlight by the window.
Or the bruise marks on her shoulder,
the two suitcases hidden beneath
her bed. As if he hadn’t come upon her
“to do” list, which did not include him.

He moves through these waning days, thirsty
for the comfort of watermelon and Kool-Aid.
Worrying a small stone in his pocket, he waits
for the right moment—that final arc, then
splash/plunk as it enters the water
and disappears.

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Poseidon

Bolinas, California


I am waiting between scented sheets
looking out into the sea where at dusk
your buttocks rose from the water
giant boulders, the rest of you submerged.

And the cormorants, they came, low-flying
silhouettes to feast on the mesa where fish
had grown weary and died with eyes wide open.

Your body grew black with feathers until
darkness claimed the birds and the tide washed
away tiny fish bones from your spine.

I am waiting, Poseidon, taking
the combs out of my hair one by one
pale bones on the bedside table.
Upon the sheets, moonlit waves
spill out like wildflowers.

You are coming, Poseidon,
rising from the waves, ringlets
glistening as night birds tunnel through
absorbing the wetness into their own hair.

Feathers of pampas grass fan your body
white and smooth as sand, formed into stone,
polished by water, turned transparent by night.

You ride on the sound of waves, pass through
my open door—touch your lips to mine
whispering nothing as I revel in your scent
of salt and wind, waves of hair, body of shell.

The night air leaves no cracks
and there is no flesh
to come between us.

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Tidal


Beneath the ocean
the plates are moving

like an ancient giant
thrashing in his sleep

disrupting oceans, upending
cities built on faith.

My sister-in law is dying,
a tsunami of the heart.

Her lungs are filling with water,
blocking the passageways

where breath moved unhindered
for sixty years. Her son leans

towards her—watching
as oxygen seeps into

her collapsed shell.