California’s official gold mining ghost town, Bodie was once notorious as the wildest town in the West. From 1877 to 1888, the community swelled to more than 10,000 residents and produced over $35 million in gold and silver. This Halloween let us put Bodie back on the poetic map. Please post your poems by October 31st. Please give feedback on poems by November 5th.
In honor of the gambling men of Bodie, each poem and response submitted will be entered into a raffle. You might just find yourself winning a game of poker. 
Madame Moustache’s Last Game of Poker
Here in Bodie things seem to move
on their own—the wind has stolen
my last good hat—the dirt is always
touching me in ways unfit for a lady.
I knew this place at first sight. Open
grave; mining town. My body’s been
growing itself to fill these shafts—
haven’t a bodice left that can hold
back the rolls of my stomach. Whiskey
put hair on me like a man—a solid line
across my upper lip and dark sprouts
around each nipple—but drink couldn’t
stop the rest of me from going soft. I’m
old and broke as these hills. The world
is running out of West. There is so little
gold left intact. I am tired of painting
a girls face over my stretched jowls. I
want the spinning wheel of chance to
stop. Just stop. And rest. But I have
rules. Play like a man. Act like a lady.
Always bought the boys I table-suckered
a drink of mama’s consolation. Bought
myself a glass of milk tonight. Used my
finger for a spoon to mixed in morphine.
Went down smooth as a heart-beat—
almost mistook my own adrenaline
for the sound of my mother’s chest—
where I use to lay my head to sleep.
Love the last stanza. Love it. The one thing I disagree with or perhaps question in this poem is the section from “I am tired of painting…” to “And rest.” I think here the poem goes soft because it becomes too explicit. You can convey all these wants and desires without making them seem so cliche and blatant. I know you can! In fact, I think most of the rest of the poem already gives us the sense that Madame Moustache is tired and ready for a rest, no blatantness needed.
Nicelle,
There’s something about this piece that is familiar, and yet not. It’s almost disturbing, in a good way. The last two stanzas seem to shift towards something different, and I think it’s the introduction of the boys. This doesn’t seem to be about the boys- it’s about Madame Mustache. She’s already told us she beats the boys at poker, even if she didn’t tell us. That’s who she is, and it comes through without having the boys in there.
This makes me want to rise to the challenge though… hopefully I’ll have something to post by the end of tomorrow.
So I think this is more of a response to your poem than to the prompt. But it seems to fit, and it’s definitely in need of some poem monster help.
The First Drawing Was Misplaced
Hay ciudades, también, que dulcifican la luz del sol—Coral Bracho, Distant Cities
(There are also cities that sweeten sunlight—trans Forrest Gander)
Breastbone splits, gold pours
into my hollow. I forget to close
again and when I pass the woman
wailing on the street corner
I cannot move away quickly enough
or I will join her, throat opened to sky.
I am afraid if you touch me I will shudder
and fall. The wind is cold here. The sun weak.
I dream a hand. A set of fingers, index tracing
my spine, inch by inch. The unzipping.
When I open my eyes I am seated on my bed,
the dark that much darker.
Old gypsy woman, window bare,
I thought I knew who you were. I thought
I could explain your open hands,
the way each image was of loss. I knew so little
it seems, and you sit, toothless smile.
Was that you, on the corner, your voice
deep into my bones, driving me down the sidewalk
and away away?
My question: what is the catalyst? “Breastbone splits, gold pours/into my hollow” but what causes breastbone to split? A beautiful image and it really draws me into the poem but without anything else attached it feels… hmm… extraneous. I want this image to work with the rest of the poem but it doesn’t quite yet.
Wow, there is a lot working in this poem; some really beautiful lines.
I want more context. (This I recognize is a poet preference edit and expect others to disagree) BUT I want some of the questions answered…
is the you the gypsy woman…or another character? What part is dream? What part is reality? Is there two…(maybe even three) settings in this poem.
Feel free to, in your kind knowing way, smile and shake your head at my terrible narrative impulses.
Here are some ordering suggestions:
I dream a hand. A set of fingers,
index tracing my spine, inch by
inch. The unzipping. Breastbone
splits, gold pours into my hollow.
I forget to close again. When I open
my eyes, I am seated on my bed,
the dark that much darker. I have
passed the woman wailing on
the street corner. (Here I would add something to indicate a shift in time or place)
I cannot move away quickly
enough or I will join her, throat
opened to sky. I am afraid if you
touch me I will shudder and fall.
The wind is cold here. The sun weak. (…p.s. I think this line should be the title)
Old gypsy woman, window bare, (how does this section connect to the “You”)
Thought I knew who you were.
Thought I could explain your open
hands, the way each image
was of loss. I knew so little it seems,
and you sit, toothless smile. Was that
you, on the corner, your voice deep
into my bones, driving me down
the sidewalk and away away?
Thank you for your beautiful words.
Best Wishes,
Nicelle Davis
You and your wonderful reordering. It’s making me look at the piece with new eyes. I think that’ll help with Jessi’s comments too. Hear hear poem monster.