Crew Spotlight | Sierra Golden | A Fisheye Perspective

Rose’s

is empty these days, old

oak bar smoke stained and carved

all over with varnished names

and spidering cracks like scars.

Fading fake roses wilt

on the untuned piano

where I learned to play “Chopsticks”

and Chopin, sang soprano

for fishermen and cannery

workers after my bedtime.

Mother, holding a lime, would

scold me, head shaking, then mime

“just one more” over the crowd.

Men, rowdy, yelling for beer

would grin, call me dear, and leave

a coin or two heaped up here

on the piano bench. I’d

hide them in my small pink heart-

purse, sneaking one at a time,

making the big pile look sparse.

I’d dream of a real stage, save

all the sticky change, count it

each night, wondering how much

was enough for red velvet

curtains, but I found fast boys,

big joints, let the money run

through my fingers. Dust motes

drifting between piano

strings. When the snow fell, I wrote

my first love note, sipping hot

toddies by the pot-belly stove.

I overflowed my heart. I sought

love in a snowman’s cold kiss.

Skunk cabbage unfurled, black bears

nipping them off near the mist

drenched ground. Then, the first bad year:

the cannery closed. Yet, boats

would float in anyway. Night

after night, skippers sat moored

on tall red stools till daylight.

I learned to slosh out whiskey

and gin, fry crisp fish and chips,

but each summer I order

less liquor, feed fewer lips.

The last folks—famous Rose too

(my tough-bucktoothed-bartending-

mom)—are far away, have since

slipped away. I wince and bend,

pull a small string. The hot pink

tubes and links of neon light

flicker, fight shadows, and then,

are wrenched into the sinking night.

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Fourth of July in Pelican, AK

The poster reads: Teeny-Weenie Contest.

I tack it on top of ragged old fliers, corners flapping

in a stiff breeze. This one is glossy, bright like new shoes

or copper penny nails at the local hardware.

Covered in red, white, and blue stars,

it’s “the big deal” around this fish-town, so don’t go

thinking dirty thoughts. It’s all fun and games

and, truth be told, the Fourth of July needs every teeny-weenie

bit of excitement teeny-peenies can muster up.

“Dying Town Loves Sex” headlines the paper in Juneau;

that tourist-trap town of Princess Cruise Line jewelry stores

likes to joke our top prize is the biggest truck in town,

but Pelican is a boardwalk row of shanties built on stilts

above the tide. Not a single road. We just want to see the little guy

win big for once.

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“Rose’s” first appeared in The Fourth River, vol. 9, 2012, and that “Fourth of July in Pelican, AK,” first appeared in Cirque, vol. 2, issue 2, 2011.