D.M. Chávez-Solis
The poems and short fiction of queerbian poet D.M. Chávez-Solis have been published in America: the Jesuit Review, Big Muddy, Half Mystic, The Healing Muse, Hubbub, Pudding, and other literary journals, and once nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook ART SPIRITS has been published by Finishing Line Press. Diane is near completion of a mixed media novel in poetry, short fiction, and song, about two artists, a father and daughter. She resides on the coast of California.
Mythic Motorcycle Man
Man, I wish I could be your outstretched
arms and wide chest funneling all this road-chi
and ionic iconic sky-panorama straight in.
Almost recumbent, within your invisible
cockpit, in total control yet letting go
of everything, pummeling past us, fragments
of this particular yesterday already sifting
through your spokes while you chop up
the highway. The rest of us shrouded
in our sensible sedans, safe, tinted windows
closed tight–you reach out to touch and feel
heaven’s rush and sting sailing past,
wind thumping, tires spitting gravel,
pipes rumbling, “To hell with thissss!”
and “Take that, all you droopy little sons
of bastards and bitches!”
Your bike bellows and screams when you
cut across the scene, riding away
as if anywhere you go, now and tomorrow
are already yours. You won’t even be trying.
“I’m the motorcycle man, have a good look!
When I grind past your dinky little cot
I’ve got it all…without needing anyone
or any damned sucky thing.”
Mixed Company
That first visit after the memorial, she walked me through their home and showed me his comb
then his shaving things poised by the sink, like musicians anticipating the turn of the faucet and
the tap-tap-tap of things beginning again. She opened a drawer so I could see the pillows of his
folded handkerchiefs and t-shirts, then his jackets and shined boots lined up like watchmen in the
closet they had shared.
Off the back porch were the tools of his too many trades waiting like dedicated artisans in his
workshop by the garage, and the chairs…two of his best old friends, still outside, as if listening
for him in the shade of the silver maple where he told me and I told him the stories of our
tramping days. I sat a few minutes while she went inside to answer the phone. Some of his tales
he skipped, “Unfit for mixed company, especially daughters.”
Others of mine, I understood as I got up to leave, a father could not want to know.
