Her round face rose, luminous sun, above
from behind her girlfriend’s shoulders,
joined in flowing lines as if to hid her bliss.
Beaming, joyous in perceived sisterhood
she rose alone, safe in love for a day, but
night would return her shame of stuttered
speech, of hard sums, and whispered slurs,
imagined, but survived, accommodated,
clutched in a secreted-self for a long life.
Must there be a differentiation, a notedness,
an elevation above, a falling below, a middling?
Does Gaia favor fierce or meek, exotic or plain?
Does ranking serve our need to condescend?
I resist the rant when the phrase is proffered,
again and again, naming us ordinary people.
I will let my beast strut, flaunt my plumage;
flare my hand-painted hackles and post a selfie.
Across the back in pencil: Mary Lee, Doris,
Ruby, Jean, Mary Jo and Jewel. They are
bunched together, a gaggle of girls, a clutch
of chicks (Ruby would forgive this line, grinning,
admonishing only with a slow No! shake of head).
.
At a place veiled from memory along
a dirt road at woods edge, they had paused,
in summer, probably on Sunday after church
to again reaffirm their sisterhood; to create
a memento of time and lines I can’t put down.
On a low stone wall or a girlfriend’s lap,
each sits tilting to center to tighten the shot.
Three girl’s left arms flow in sensual repetition
to clasp a sister knee. Their hands and arms fall
loosely draped like their worn cotton dresses
to waists, shoulders, arms, laps and legs;
a collage of languid limbs and flesh demure,
but freed, no Old Master could better.
Legs, closed or crossed, are bare to the knees;
their feet, bare too, splay at liberty in dust.
Each girl, coerced early to womanhood by war,
work and absent boys, is luminous in naiveté.
There is no glint of doubt in any eye; all dare
with unselfconscious grins the viewer to rip
this moment away; to dare tell their fortunes.
I knew you would come today! I knew.
They’re good to me here, really, they are.
They’re not the same though……as family.
Have you seen your brother? That rascal!
Can’t come to see his old Mama…ha, ha!
Is he retired like you? Can’t afford it,
I guess. I would send him money to come.
I still have some money don’t I? Well…..
How long have I been here? Five years!
It only seems a few months. They are
good to me here. I would not stay if they
were mean to me…I would go home today.
A new place, I mean…..I know I can walk
but they won’t walk me anymore…help me
up, to try. Well, then…I guess I’ll stay…they
are good to me here. I would leave if not.
I sat by the window this morning…the trees
they are dogwood…aren’t they…are beautiful.
Is it warm outside? They keep it so cold in here.
I need a new jacket. See, my sleeve is torn.
Yes frayed… well then, whenever you can.
Let me tell you…this morning…sitting there
at the window watching the trees…dogwoods,
I had the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever felt.
God said we would feel that way in heaven
all the time…every minute of endless days!
I can’t wait to see your Daddy there again.
You have a baby sister in heaven too, waiting.
God told me it was a girl. The doctor couldn’t
tell back then…I was just a month along or so.
Something happened….I never would cause it.
Your Daddy and our baby are watching for us.
But she might be grown now; raised in heaven
by your sweet Daddy! Who knows how it works
up there. Raised in Heaven! She would be a true
angel. Something we can never be…you and me.
Spiraling upward
un-touching entwination
in flittering flight
nothing to repent
they cherish what is given
synched as wind and chime
August eight: the truth has yet to be told:
a year, leaked away drop by stale drop,
has only left toxic staining spots.
They glare and moan with rubbing.
Perhaps the truth will never be told;
the telling: soothing balm or albatross,
a healing or a festering more vile;
the undoing more hurtful than the doing?
August one and sweet gum leaves,
enough to notice, are falling yellow
on wilting grass. The air is dry;
the parching season; joy does thirst;
I crave a single meager bliss:
a sip of wine, a furtive smile,
but for now this cool wind gift will do.
August two and insidious privet
tentacle roots spit depleted red-
clay clumps at me. I fight to claim
a needed though paltry victory
before winter’s cold, harsh truce.
August three and butterflies flood
their namesake shrubs decoding
nectar’s notes on divine law while
breeze and chime synch our requiem.
When five, she scraped in soft, black ground
a hole—a grave—to cuddle what she found
below the steps; a baby turtle; dead.
Splayed neck and legs and cracked green shell
told her of death and worse, of disregard.
She took her sister’s glass jewel-box
and lay Turtle in on velvet cloth, covered
him over, patted, caressed his final bed;
she sang a song she’d heard the choir sing
while fashioning a cross from sticks and string.
Three days straight, she exhumed his remains
but Turtle’s knowing smile did not change.
At death, soul flies, flesh melts away, they said.
At five, she wanted only fireflies’ night vitrine
to sooth a disquiet mind; to run, to sing.
Most conspicuous soarer of Georgia skies
floats for eons circling till I grit my teeth
in expectancy and finally he, snagging
a hot air lift, shoots up straight, ascending
like Jesus, wings stiff with ecstasy,
blood stained beak thrown open to sing
hosannas, but not for my ears. Then more
eons and satiated or fearful of God-light or
despairing still of Paradise lost, a minute
wing-tip-dip spirals him in delirium down
to vanish behind pine’s dark façade;
shade veiled refuge for his grotesquerie.
Belated Words 