Cicatrix

Charles Cantrell

In this aptly named collection of poems, Cantrell explores the deep impress on him of his father’s alcoholism. His vibrant portrayals maintain a tension of aching contrasts. A lively boy stalks criminals with his radio hero, “The Shadow,” longs to have a telescope, helps his dad build new porch steps. But the fatherly arm around his shoulder is the same one that delivers hammer blows of addiction and violence. The boy can’t unravel the riddle, but he pushes the question. Lying out beneath the stars, he “wonder[s]/how their harmonies mesh and why they burn out/and if spirit figures in this.” If Cantrell uncovers an answer, it may be in the balance of his perceptions, his refusal to love blindly or hate overwhelmingly, his courage in acknowledging the tangled misery and longing which tie him to his father: “With his rage…./With his kindness…./With his fear…./And his regret/like a tough weed/ growing beside a knotty fence post/that will take no nail/without bending it.”

Charles Cantrell teaches English at Madison Area Technical College. His awards include grants from the Wisconsin Arts Board, fellowships from Ragdale, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and Ucross. He is also listed in a 1992 edition of Who’s Who in American and Canadian Poets, Editors and Writers. Poems have appeared in numerous publications, including the Literary Review, Nimrod, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, and Yankee. Charles Cantrell was nominated for a 2000 Pushcart Prize. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin with his wife and son.

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Excerpt

Fire Truck

I got socks for Christmas,
Bazooka bubble gum, blew pink
balloons and looked through them
at gulls scavenging behind the gas station
near the docks–our house beside the river
where scum from the vaseline factory
stirred the water blue to green.

After Christmas the teacher said,
“Bring a toy and tell about it.”
Walking to school, I kicked leaves
then saw a red fire truck, hook and ladder
and grabbed it from beside a bird bath.

In class I told about a boy who longed
to fight fires and dreamt one night
he was driving “Big Red” to a three-alarm,
where he rescued a woman clutching a puppy.
Walking home, I passed the house.
Shades pulled, no one in the yard,
I placed the truck in the exact spot

as before, then ran, leaves flying
like broken flames behind my heels–
ran like a hungry, but happy, dog
after any old bone. A siren’s wail
in my skull, a bell’s two-note
clang in my chest.