© 2022 Don Yorty. All rights reserved.
I asked Anthony Cappo if I could record him reading from his new book, When You’re Deep In A Thing. Anthony is a born storyteller whose stories crystalize into poems that are personal and universal because they draw you in wanting to know what is going to happen next, poems with satisfying denouements, surprising epiphanies at the end. Some scars that mar us were not our faults, but put there by someone else, some other force, perhaps even love. But what comes to undo Anthony Cappo, he makes into a poem. Enjoy.
Pillbug
On my knees, I roust weeds
………….from their dug-in
nests. Roots screech
………….reluctant goodbyes,
and carry a tiny armadillo creature
………….yanked from earth’s
core. Slumber interrupted,
………….he wipes his eyes, scrambles
to the surface. Crawls on my hand,
………….threatens a jag
up my arm. But really just scared.
………….World upended, so much done,
undone. So many steps
………….to retrace. Collapses
his body in a clenched-shut case
………….like any pillbug—
or person—would do.
Clouds
Looking out my window seat, I see clouds
surveil the Arizona desert, cast Rorschach
shadows on washed-out mounds below.
Gaseous drones roaming at will—track
every lizard and rattler’s movement.
Hovering eyes to spy threats to the peace.
Your papers, please.
…………………………………………….But at first
their blue-black shadows seemed scattered
lake oases breaking the land’s monotony.
Pools of hope dotting the desert, stocked
with rainbow trout, perfect for a cool dip
or jet ski.
………………But eventually real lakes crawl
across my window—in jagged shapes—
and I know we’re not over the desert anymore.
And again clouds are clouds, not benign,
not malignant, no greater significance.
I exit the plane and descend
into the thousand-eyed sunset.
Reed Lake
They say the beaver is huge but I haven’t seen him.
All week I’ve crossed Canyon Bridge, scanning
the water, but no sign. Only ducks and crows,
whose grating caws, so close, unnerve me.
At night the bridge lights up, rows of blue orbs
that would soothe if they didn’t seem to point
to some surreal, unsettling place. But walking the lake
at day is different. The cawing on the bridge
that sends me scurrying sounds natural
in the teeming green—like pterodactyl cries
rising over a prehistoric swamp. The shirl
of the streams calm. Thimbleberries
line the path. On a log, two turtles
sun themselves, looking like shiny black turrets.
Maybe the beaver is afraid of the turtles—
their barrels full of lead. Or maybe he appears
only to the lucky, or those who believe
in him. I want to believe in everything,
anything. Streams of stigmata.
Healing hand of the Lord thwacking me
in the face. To be fastened, connected.
I want to see the beaver
and feel blessed.
When You’re Deep in a Thing is published by Four Way Books. You can check it out here:
To find out more about Anthony Cappo, you can check him out here: