{"id":30292,"date":"2015-10-25T11:28:09","date_gmt":"2015-10-25T17:28:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/?p=30292"},"modified":"2018-09-06T02:24:13","modified_gmt":"2018-09-06T08:24:13","slug":"sunday-blog-read-david-lee","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/sunday-blog-read-david-lee\/","title":{"rendered":"READ LOCAL First: David Lee"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"David<\/a>SUNDAY BLOG READ is your glimpse into the working minds and hearts of Utah\u2019s literary writers. Each month, 15 Bytes offers works-in-progress and \/ or recently published work by some of the state\u2019s most celebrated and promising writers of fiction, poetry, literary non-fiction and memoir.<\/p>\n

Today, 15 Bytes features Utah’s first poet laureate David Lee who offers here a new poem, a previously published poem and one published but now re-written for a forthcoming collection all of which are set to appear in the collection Bluebonnets, Firewheels and Browneyed Susans:\u00a0A Few Women I Knew \u00a01948-1962 <\/em>(Wings Press).<\/em> Currently a resident of Mesquite, Nevada, Lee most recently appeared in Utah at the Cliff Notes Conference in Boulder, Utah with Amy Irvine McHarg, Alison Luterman as part of the Utah Humanities Book Festival<\/a>. You can read the 15 Bytes review by Larry Menlove of David’s most recent collection Last Call<\/em> here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Sunday Blog Read continues to accrue a distinguished group of established and emerging Utah writers for your review and enjoyment.<\/p>\n

So curl up with your favorite cup of joe and enjoy the work of David!<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Preacher<\/strong><\/p>\n

In 1956 the First Baptists got a new preacher
\nThe Right Reverend Pastor Brother Strayhan until
\nat a later date he earned a permanent alternate moniker
\nfrom the Southern Tennessee Ministerial Seminary
\nwho toted an eight pound Bible claimed to have been given
\nupon graduation carrying a spinal straining approximately
\nforty ribbons marking citation pagination
\nall the imaginable colors of Joseph\u2019s patriarchal coat
\nthat got him thrown into a holding tank pending reassignment
\nso that after he\u00a0 had shepherded them for a year\u2019s span
\nhe took it upon himself to sporadically remind the flock
\nof his significance having received each ribbon
\nas a mark of his acknowledgement being designated
\nOutstanding in His Field as he worked himself
\ninto an archetypal lather uplifting the ribbons
\nin his proverbial peroration\u00a0 toward Giving of the Invitation
\nswinging the tome like a veritable Chinese New Year\u2019s kite
\nabove the podium in his exuberant desire for manifestation
\nMatriarch after services on an extraordinarily warm spring
\n12:36 p.m. proclaimed she wished he would go
\nout and stand in his field some more
\nshe had had a belly full of him and no dinner yet already<\/p>\n

In particular he loved to preach on his calling by the Lord
\nto be his Servant when he was only sixteen years of age
\nmet his lovely wife that same summer to the glory of God
\nMiss Bouchier said almost out loud she allowed that possibility
\nall boys that age get called, some even on the telephone
\nbut she had a premonition the Good Lord may well have
\ngot an unlisted number that time, we all get it wrong
\nnow and then that poor woman had a veritable passel of kids
\nall the Lord\u2019s will the oldest Debby Reynolds Strayhan
\nnot even twelve Deacon James Lee Bowen
\nheard to whisper during communion She resembles
\na inner tube without about half its air
\nwhy he\u2019s sure him and his Missus heard her two aisles over
\nin Piggly Wiggly once her feet drug so
\nwore out and it wasn\u2019t no way they could count her
\nto be even thirty and still known it was her
\nbefore they even seen her by the slouching sound
\nEven though he received his ministerial salary, parsonage
\nautomobile and full electricity and water coverage
\nhe remained convinced that in light of his sizeable family
\nit wasn\u2019t enough to get by on so that seemingly
\nevery third Sunday the sermon concerned
\nthe collection plate and the bread on the water
\nexercising in addition his prerogative to traverse
\nthe township inquiring of all businesses
\na ministerial discount and when denied stalking out
\nin an emblematic huff with the covert threat of calling
\nfor a Christian boycott by all true believers in his faith
\nhis children receiving half price discounts at the Garza Theatre
\nfor Saturday matinee Roy Rogers extravaganzas
\nfree meals at the school lunchroom
\nand complimentary family admission
\nto all Antelope Sporting, Cultural and Musical events<\/p>\n

~\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 ~\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 ~\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 ~<\/p>\n

And so it came to pass that on a Thursday of a previously
\nnon-memorable out-of-football-season month
\nthe Strayhan clan sojourned to Miss Lela\u2019s Dew Drop Inn
\nfor supper and stood in abeyance before the counter
\nawaiting Miss Lela\u2019s acknowledgement upon which
\nthe Reverend gave parochial noddance to his eldest son
\nBilly Graham Strayhan to proceed with invocation
\nupon which the future missionary to the starving Ethiopian
\ninnocents opined How much is your menstral discount to eat here
\nmy daddy says we need at least twenty percent?
\nMiss Lela being not a Baptist but a Presbyter
\nsaid Whar? whereupon the Right Reverend
\nin perfect clarification rejoined My family and I
\nreceive discounts on the account of my being
\na Minister of God of up to one half at most places
\nof business in this community and Deacon Eulis Robinson
\none of the diners that evening rejoined in Christian piety
\nbecause he had no alternative Yes ma\u2019am that\u2019s a fact
\nall the restaurant entourage rapt and sitting at full attention
\nenjoined to see if there might occur on this evening in Texas
\na repetition of Moses\u2019Exodus and the subsequent
\nparting of the north fork of the dry Brazos river
\nMiss Lela said con grande autorita Set down
\nI\u2019ll do my twenty percent one time<\/p>\n

Benevolently waving away the intrusion of menu
\nGod\u2019s Chosen ordered tunafish sandwiches
\nand a large glass of water with a lemon slice for his children
\nfried chicken for his lovely wife that being always
\nin perfect Christian conservatism the most for the money
\nand told the waitress Bring me a steak to eat tonight
\nmy daughter in Christ
\nHow would you like that steak cooked, then? she said
\nto which he rejoined Scriptural
\nwhereupon she replied What? he said
\nWell done my good and faithful servant
\nleaned back in his chair and smiled
\ngenerously to the adulating audience<\/p>\n

Miss Lela heard it beginning to end top to bottom
\nand in a voice purloined from Job\u2019s whirlwind
\nshouted across the wavering cafe
\nfrom the cash register to the cook
\nall in attendance harkened once again to attention
\nFix that preacher\u2019s kids hamburgers
\nwith French fries and CoCola
\nmake his wife shrimps and whitefish
\nwith bleu cheese on her salad
\nput him a steak on from off the bottom of the pile
\nI\u2019ll pay the different
\nCookie said How he want that steak?
\nMiss Lela said Scriptural:
\nBurn that sonofabitch to Hell
\nand for the first time any one of us in our town
\never witnessed Missus Reverend Strayhan snorted
\ninto her napkin then giggled into her chest
\nthen broke wind into a belly laugh concerto that drew
\nDryden\u2019s and Cecelia\u2019s at Alexander\u2019s Feast\u2018s Angel down
\nand though the Reverend swore a benedictory oath
\nof clearing he would never upon his life and precious
\nsoul enter again that supper establishment
\nit never hurt Miss Lela\u2019s business not even one bit\u00a0Tough<\/p>\n

An earlier version of this poem appeared in the author’s collection<\/em> My Town.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Song E.U. Washburn, the Gravetender, Heard
\nSung Between the Malouf and Cummings Plots
\nOn a Saturday Evening<\/strong><\/p>\n

many a thought shall die which was not born of dream
\n–e.e. cummings<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

I remember a red covered bridge
\nand a yellow and black butterfly,
\nevening and a nighthawk
\nover moving water.
\nHer silver words turning the world
\ncalled the moon
\nlike a great stone pulled up
\nfrom the earth and broken away,
\nits taproot sliding back soft
\ninto the hill country\u2019s belly
\nwhile that white child
\nwandered like the lost thing I became
\nalone in the twilight sky.<\/p>\n

I put a buckle
\non that moon and the jinglejangle sound
\nof her voice hanging in the air,
\nheld it like a shiny dollar in my hand
\none with the night
\nuntil a cloud covered me
\nand the moon climbed into dream,
\nwords swallowing us
\nlike a gush of Rio Frio water.
\nWhen we had been
\nall was unchanged where we had gone:
\nmoonlight, bridge, dust motes,
\nbutterfly,\u00a0 silver river, the nightjar\u2019s song.<\/p>\n

*<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Tough
\nBuena Vista Ragsdale<\/strong>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nthe dew lay all night heavy upon my branch<\/em>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Job 29:19<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The morning the mailman found her
\nafter eighteen hours on that caliche ground
\nhard as a mule trail, the dregs
\nof dawnlight streamed up like a cockscomb
\nabove their rickety farmhouse ridgepole
\nand wallowed with the blue tick heeler
\nthe raindrip groundedge under the Texas porch
\nfar sky still dark blue as a shotgun barrel
\nabove where she lay in the body length embrace
\nof death, wash hung stretched out and starched
\non the clothesline like a flock of angels
\nthe cheatgrass whitewashed with hard rime<\/p>\n

she fell and then waited for him to find her
\nthrough the afternoon and cold night with
\na broken hip, her dispeptic husband inside
\nwith the T.V. wondering where supper might be
\nuntil he found buttermilk and cornbread
\nin the cold box with a quarter of onion
\nthat would have to tide him over
\nuntil she finished whatever she was doing
\nand made him something for breakfast
\nnever noticing she didn\u2019t come to bed<\/p>\n

when the mailman knocked him up
\nfrom his Captain Kangaroo reverie to wallow
\nout of his chair and come answer the door
\nhe said You need to get on the phone
\ncall an ambulance to come out here
\nhe said What for?\u00a0 I aint sick yet
\nthe mailman said It\u2019s not about you
\nit\u2019s your wife Miss Buena laying out there
\non the ground half froze to death and hurt bad
\nit looks like and he said
\nI wondered how come she hadn\u2019t made no coffee<\/p>\n

she wouldn\u2019t even take an aspirin
\nwith a glass of whiskey for the pain
\nso she could stay awake and keep her mind
\nalert enough to hear what that dammed Dr. Tubbs
\nand those nurses might be saying
\nabout her behind her back
\nwho didn\u2019t know a sonofabitching thing
\nabout it anyway and after
\nthe mailman offered his opinion
\nLike a ocotillo limb to which Dr. Tubbs
\nsaid What? She said A devil\u2019s walking stick
\njust find a bed and put me in it
\nI need to get some rest<\/p>\n

her husband hitched a ride in
\nwith the mailman the next day and sat
\nin a corner of her room saying nothing,
\nlike a waterlogged raft waiting
\nfor a huge shove to get underweigh
\nbut accepting a dinner tray when they brought it
\nthen hitched a ride back to the farm
\nevery evening with whoever he conned
\nout of a lift the seven miles
\nso introverted and evanescent
\nthe nurses and Dr. Tubbs on rounds
\nnever even noticed his presence
\nhe made such a science of mute insociability
\nexcept to ask that the channel be changed
\non rare occasions of documentary or political commentary
\nbeyond his cognition, having as Dr. Tubbs said
\nthe mental capacity and vocabulary
\nof a second grader plus the word firetruck<\/p>\n

she lay dying through the winter
\nwith her nonhealing shattered pelvis and femur
\nuncomplaining and acceptant of fate
\nonly asking the nurses one request,
\nthat the call switch be hung
\non the toilet paper holder saying
\nBy god they can find me being dead
\nin bed or on the ground but
\nthey are not going to discover me
\nstretched out on top of the bed pan
\nwhen her husband said What
\nwas that about? She said
\nJust shut up, your mind is as black
\nas a table of\u00a0 face down dominoes
\non top of a midnight velvet cloth
\ngo on home you aint doing anybody any good
\nso you might as well do it there as here<\/p>\n

Dr. Tubbs said she was a lily of the field
\nher toiling and spinning days done
\nlet her have anything she wants
\nanybody who put up with that man
\nand that hard a life out there alone
\nfor fifty years is a candidate for sainthood<\/p>\n

not to speak also of the fact she could do
\nany job needed to be done on a ranch or farm
\nfrom building fence to pulling calves
\nto digging a new outhouse pit and moving the shack on
\nto fixing gates, swathing and pitching hay to picking up eggs
\nmailman said he\u2019d seen them going out to work
\nshe carrying tools in a shoulder satchel
\nhe following like something habitual
\ncarrying an empty five gallon bucket
\nhe\u2019d turn down and sit on
\nwhile she worked, all the time fulfilling
\nhis self-designated role supervising and criticizing
\nonce when he brought the mail out he saw her
\npushing a lawnmower over the front yard weeds
\nher life object telling her where she had to go back
\nfor a missed spot she said Get out of the way
\ngo back in the house or I\u2019ll mow your feet<\/p>\n

no one in town had a goose\u2019s idea
\nwhere she found him, how she taught
\nhim to walk unless she bought him
\na peep of chickens to be examples
\nor got him toilet trained, he in our minds
\nthe veritable emblem of the reason
\nwe invented the concept of uselessness
\nthank God he married a woman who knew
\nhow a deep well bucket pulley system worked or he
\nwould have died of thirst staring at the sink
\nhis presence no longer a matter
\nshe had time or energy to think about
\nit being nothing worth the effort<\/p>\n

in March after almost one hundred and eighty days abed
\nshe asked the young R.N.\u00a0 just out
\nof Temple Nursing School if she would find someone
\nto go out to her house and look in her closet
\nbring her white longdress
\nup to the hospital if it wouldn\u2019t be trouble
\nwhen the nurse who had not yet been told
\narguing with Miss Buena Vista
\nwas like arguing with an axe
\nasked Why\u2019d you need it for?
\nshe only looked at her with her owlstare
\nuntil she said Yes ma\u2019am I will find somebody
\nto do that even if I have to do it myself
\nshe said I would be much obliged
\nwould you have them hang it up
\nin the wardrobe side by my bed?<\/p>\n

the head night nurse said She would
\nhave looked a banshee eye to eye
\nthrough the hospital window where she laid
\nfor all those months and told him
\nin front of company or Dr. Tubbs
\nGet the hell out of here you sonofabitch
\nand if he had any sense, by God he would<\/p>\n

on an equinox day when the sunrise and moonset
\npainted both corners of her long window at dawn
\na nurse walking by heard her say Okay
\nI\u2019m done with it, get out of the way
\nI\u2019m coming through
\nby the time she got in she was already gone
\nher hair combed, wearing her white dress
\nno one could imagine how she got out
\nof the wardrobe closet and on her body
\nwith her spiral broken hip
\nhands folded together pretty<\/p>\n

they called Dr. Tubbs who came
\nand felt her pulse said like a mortician
\nShe has expired and started writing
\non the chart to make it official
\nwhen her husband stood and held up his hands
\nlike he was exposing a stigmata
\nasked Is she dead then?
\neverybody shocked because they had
\nonce again forgotten his presence in the room
\nand her eyes came open looking right at him
\nshe said You can go home Ralph
\nGo home now\u00a0 Now
\nand she closed her eyes and was dead again<\/p>\n

Dr. Tubbs said I believe Miss Buena
\nwould agree with me when I say
\nI\u2019ll be goddammed, and no one said No she wouldn\u2019t
\nthe nurse said I\u2019ve never seen that before
\nRalph said I’ll be going home now
\nI believe she gone off and left me for good
\nDr. Tubbs said I believe Miss Buena
\nwould tell me to go to hell if she heard me say
\nO God I loved that woman
\nI would have kept her as my patient
\nevery day of my life<\/p>\n

but Miss Buena I want you to know
\nif you can hear me, just in the unlikely event
\nthere is indeed an afterlife,
\nI sincerely hope we are in separate chambers
\nwith my luck there will be a pet rattlesnake
\nin your room and when it finally strikes you
\nSt. Peter will come running for me
\nto come in and check on that poor snake
\nheal it up and all forgive it for what it in ignorance did
\nand I suspect on my last day on earth
\nthat memory will cover me like a cast iron potlid<\/p>\n

through the afternoon and cold night with
\na broken hip, her dispeptic husband inside
\nwith the T.V. wondering where supper might be
\nuntil he found buttermilk and cornbread
\nin the cold box with a quarter of onion
\nthat would have to tide him over
\nuntil she finished whatever she was doing
\nand made him something for breakfast
\nnever noticing she didn\u2019t come to bed<\/p>\n

when the mailman knocked him up
\nfrom his Captain Kangaroo reverie to wallow
\nout of his chair and come answer the door
\nhe said You need to get on the phone
\ncall an ambulance to come out here
\nhe said What for?\u00a0 I aint sick yet
\nthe mailman said It\u2019s not about you
\nit\u2019s your wife Miss Buena laying out there
\non the ground half froze to death and hurt bad
\nit looks like and he said
\nI wondered how come she hadn\u2019t made no coffee<\/p>\n

she wouldn\u2019t even take an aspirin
\nwith a glass of whiskey for the pain
\nso she could stay awake and keep her mind
\nalert enough to hear what that dammed Dr. Tubbs
\nand those nurses might be saying
\nabout her behind her back
\nwho didn\u2019t know a sonofabitching thing
\nabout it anyway and after
\nthe mailman offered his opinion
\nLike a ocotillo limb to which Dr. Tubbs
\nsaid What? She said A devil\u2019s walking stick
\njust find a bed and put me in it
\nI need to get some rest<\/p>\n

her husband hitched a ride in
\nwith the mailman the next day and sat
\nin a corner of her room saying nothing,
\nlike a waterlogged raft waiting
\nfor a huge shove to get underweigh
\nbut accepting a dinner tray when they brought it
\nthen hitched a ride back to the farm
\nevery evening with whoever he conned
\nout of a lift the seven miles
\nso introverted and evanescent
\nthe nurses and Dr. Tubbs on rounds
\nnever even noticed his presence
\nhe made such a science of mute insociability
\nexcept to ask that the channel be changed
\non rare occasions of documentary or political commentary
\nbeyond his cognition, having as Dr. Tubbs said
\nthe mental capacity and vocabulary
\nof a second grader plus the word firetruck<\/p>\n

she lay dying through the winter
\nwith her nonhealing shattered pelvis and femur
\nuncomplaining and acceptant of fate
\nonly asking the nurses one request,
\nthat the call switch be hung
\non the toilet paper holder saying
\nBy god they can find me being dead
\nin bed or on the ground but
\nthey are not going to discover me
\nstretched out on top of the bed pan
\nwhen her husband said What
\nwas that about? She said
\nJust shut up, your mind is as black
\nas a table of\u00a0 face down dominoes
\non top of a midnight velvet cloth
\ngo on home you aint doing anybody any good
\nso you might as well do it there as here<\/p>\n

Dr. Tubbs said she was a lily of the field
\nher toiling and spinning days done
\nlet her have anything she wants
\nanybody who put up with that man
\nand that hard a life out there alone
\nfor fifty years is a candidate for sainthood<\/p>\n

not to speak also of the fact she could do
\nany job needed to be done on a ranch or farm
\nfrom building fence to pulling calves
\nto digging a new outhouse pit and moving the shack on
\nto fixing gates, swathing and pitching hay to picking up eggs
\nmailman said he\u2019d seen them going out to work
\nshe carrying tools in a shoulder satchel
\nhe following like something habitual
\ncarrying an empty five gallon bucket
\nhe\u2019d turn down and sit on
\nwhile she worked, all the time fulfilling
\nhis self-designated role supervising and criticizing
\nonce when he brought the mail out he saw her
\npushing a lawnmower over the front yard weeds
\nher life object telling her where she had to go back
\nfor a missed spot she said Get out of the way
\ngo back in the house or I\u2019ll mow your feet<\/p>\n

no one in town had a goose\u2019s idea
\nwhere she found him, how she taught
\nhim to walk unless she bought him
\na peep of chickens to be examples
\nor got him toilet trained, he in our minds
\nthe veritable emblem of the reason
\nwe invented the concept of uselessness
\nthank God he married a woman who knew
\nhow a deep well bucket pulley system worked or he
\nwould have died of thirst staring at the sink
\nhis presence no longer a matter
\nshe had time or energy to think about
\nit being nothing worth the effort<\/p>\n

in March after almost one hundred and eighty days abed
\nshe asked the young R.N.\u00a0 just out
\nof Temple Nursing School if she would find someone
\nto go out to her house and look in her closet
\nbring her white longdress
\nup to the hospital if it wouldn\u2019t be trouble
\nwhen the nurse who had not yet been told
\narguing with Miss Buena Vista
\nwas like arguing with an axe
\nasked Why\u2019d you need it for?
\nshe only looked at her with her owlstare
\nuntil she said Yes ma\u2019am I will find somebody
\nto do that even if I have to do it myself
\nshe said I would be much obliged
\nwould you have them hang it up
\nin the wardrobe side by my bed?<\/p>\n

the head night nurse said She would
\nhave looked a banshee eye to eye
\nthrough the hospital window where she laid
\nfor all those months and told him
\nin front of company or Dr. Tubbs
\nGet the hell out of here you sonofabitch
\nand if he had any sense, by God he would<\/p>\n

on an equinox day when the sunrise and moonset
\npainted both corners of her long window at dawn
\na nurse walking by heard her say Okay
\nI\u2019m done with it, get out of the way
\nI\u2019m coming through
\nby the time she got in she was already gone
\nher hair combed, wearing her white dress
\nno one could imagine how she got out
\nof the wardrobe closet and on her body
\nwith her spiral broken hip
\nhands folded together pretty<\/p>\n

they called Dr. Tubbs who came
\nand felt her pulse said like a mortician
\nShe has expired and started writing
\non the chart to make it official
\nwhen her husband stood and held up his hands
\nlike he was exposing a stigmata
\nasked Is she dead then?
\neverybody shocked because they had
\nonce again forgotten his presence in the room
\nand her eyes came open looking right at him
\nshe said You can go home Ralph
\nGo home now\u00a0 Now
\nand she closed her eyes and was dead again<\/p>\n

Dr. Tubbs said I believe Miss Buena
\nwould agree with me when I say
\nI\u2019ll be goddammed, and no one said No she wouldn\u2019t
\nthe nurse said I\u2019ve never seen that before
\nRalph said I’ll be going home now
\nI believe she gone off and left me for good
\nDr. Tubbs said I believe Miss Buena
\nwould tell me to go to hell if she heard me say
\nO God I loved that woman
\nI would have kept her as my patient
\nevery day of my life<\/p>\n

but Miss Buena I want you to know
\nif you can hear me, just in the unlikely event
\nthere is indeed an afterlife,
\nI sincerely hope we are in separate chambers
\nwith my luck there will be a pet rattlesnake
\nin your room and when it finally strikes you
\nSt. Peter will come running for me
\nto come in and check on that poor snake
\nheal it up and all forgive it for what it in ignorance did
\nand I suspect on my last day on earth
\nthat memory will cover me like a cast iron potlid<\/p>\n

Originally published in<\/em> The Missouri Review.<\/p>\n

#<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"LastCall-book-cover\"<\/a>David<\/span> Lee<\/span> was raised in Post, Texas (southeast of Lubbock, northeast of Lamesa \u2014 think hot, dry and flat), a background he has never completely escaped, despite his varied experiences as a seminary student, a boxer and semi-pro baseball player (the only white player to ever play for the Negro League Post Texas Blue Stars) known for his knuckleball, a hog farmer, and a decorated Army veteran. Along the way he earned a Ph.D., taught at various universities, and recently retired as the Chairman of the Department of Language and Literature at Southern Utah University.<\/u><\/u><\/p>\n

After 30 years in Utah, Lee<\/span> and his wife Jan took to the road to become more-or-less full-time wanderers. passing through Bandera, Texas, Lee<\/span> says, “We just fell in love. We noticed nine bars and two churches and thought this is where God lives.” They settled in Bandera, but still spend half of the year traveling, mostly on the back roads of the western U.S.<\/u><\/u><\/p>\n

Lee<\/span> was named Utah’s first Poet Laureate in 1997, and has received both the Mountains & Plains Booksellers Award in Poetry and the Western States Book Award in Poetry. Lee<\/span> received the Utah Governor’s Award for lifetime achievement and was listed among Utah’s top twelve writers of all time by the Utah Endowment for the Humanities. He is the author of fifteen books of poetry. In 2004, So Quietly the Earth\u00a0<\/i>was selected for the New York Public Library’s annual “Books to Remember” list.<\/u><\/u><\/p>\n

Read an interview with David<\/span> Lee<\/span> in the [Bandera Courier<\/a>]<\/p>\n

Past featured writers in <\/em>15 Bytes\u2019 Sunday Blog Read:\u00a0Katharine Coles<\/a>, Michael McLane<\/a>, Darrell Spencer<\/a>, Larry Menlove<\/a>,Christopher Bigelow<\/a>, Shanan Ballam<\/a>, Steve Proskauer<\/a>, April Wilder<\/a>,Calvin Haul<\/a>, Lance Larsen<\/a>, Joel Long<\/a>,Lynn Kilpatrick<\/a>,Phyllis Barber<\/a>, David Hawkins<\/a>,Nancy Takacs<\/a>,Mike Dorrell<\/a>,Susan Elizabeth Howe<\/a>, Star Coulbrooke<\/a>, Brad Roghaar,<\/a> Jerry Vanleperen<\/a>,Maximilian Werner<\/a>, Markay Brown<\/a>, Natalie Young<\/a>, Michael Sowder<\/a>, and Danielle Beazer Dubrasky<\/a>,\u00a0Kevin Holdsworth<\/a>,\u00a0Jacqueline Osherow<\/a>, Stephen Carter<\/a>,\u00a0Alex Caldiero<\/a>,\u00a0Stephen Tuttle<\/a>, and Raphael Dagold<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

SUNDAY BLOG READ is your glimpse into the working minds and hearts of Utah\u2019s literary writers. Each month, 15 Bytes offers works-in-progress and \/ or recently published work by some of the state\u2019s most celebrated and promising writers of fiction, poetry, literary non-fiction and memoir. Today, 15 Bytes […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1566,"featured_media":29861,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_piecal_is_event":false,"_piecal_start_date":"","_piecal_end_date":"","_piecal_is_allday":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[69,35,2513],"tags":[26,2549,2096,2551,1301,1298],"class_list":["post-30292","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-daily-bytes","category-literary-arts","category-read-local-first","tag-15-bytes","tag-bluebonnets","tag-david-lee","tag-firewheels-and-browneyed-susans","tag-sunday-blog-read","tag-utah-poet-laureate"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/David-Lee-Poet.jpg","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"publishpress_future_action":{"enabled":false,"date":"2026-06-17 08:24:05","action":"change-status","newStatus":"draft","terms":[],"taxonomy":"category","extraData":[]},"publishpress_future_workflow_manual_trigger":{"enabledWorkflows":[]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/30292","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1566"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=30292"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/30292\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":35439,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/30292\/revisions\/35439"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/29861"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=30292"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=30292"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=30292"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}