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Dave Bonta
The upstairs neighbors keep to themselves.
Who wouldn’t? It’s a rough neighborhood.
Gang members are so brazen
they’ve taken to wearing police uniforms.
I sublet a basement from the rats
& commute to work on an exercise wheel.
The shower smells a bit like sulphur,
but the hot water always comes on right away.
I pass people on the street
with faces like crushed cigarette butts,
but I’m sure they’re perfectly nice
once you get to know them.
I hear things, sure—
some kind of BDSM party, I guess,
or an amusement park
with too many scary rides.
The feel of the air getting intense,
The sight of a funnel was astonishing,
Watching the funnel increase in size was terrifying,
I could feel the wind getting faster and faster,
I heard the sirens for tornados start up and get louder,
the wind felt as if I was waking side by side with a moving train,
as I got to safety,
I heard a sound as if something was just flinging thugs around,
I could feel the winds just above me,
I could hear the roaring wind,
I was watching the roof over my basement start to sink in towards us,
and then as we sat we no longer heard the roaring winds and no longer was our basement roof caving in,
a sign that it was now over,
I.
The Junior Prom deposited me (and fifteen
others) on the floor of her basement. I could
barely see daylight at the time, and at three in
the morning I began to prowl. I was too scared
to turn on any lights. She emerged like a mermaid
from seaweed. I needed comfort, she enjoyed my
need. We had gone out— she was bitter. The whole
dialogue happened in shadows. No one was hooking
up in the other room, either. You spiteful little princess.
II.
Whether off the bathroom counter
or the back of your hand, darling,
your unusual vehemence that
winter night, cob-webbed by
half-real figures, was animated by an
The wooden stairs are steep, only about ten of them but
steep. At the foot is Grandma’s canning pantry complete
with carefully sealed Mason jars filled with applesauce,
jams, jellies, watermelon pickles, and other preserves.
Mostly it’s fruit we picked. I like it when Grandma
chooses me to fetch something from the shelves.
To the left is Grandpa’s workbench with an assortment
of tools including a bench-grinder, a couple of rock
tumblers and, my favorite, a handheld black light. We
use it to view the fluorescent stones and minerals in his
rock collection gathered on many trips across North
America. Fluorite, calcite, and hyalite all dazzle in its
subtle glow. Grandpa weaves stories of adventure in with
My soul, in search of skylights,
Climbed flights of stairs,
Hit its head on attic beams,
Fell over cast-off chairs.
It went back down to rooms
Of routine, fearful days,
Persistent anxious nights,
And weary, wearing ways—
Went further—to a basement,
To be desperate and low,
Stumbled there on blueprints
For skylights, what do you know?