unheeded future
pendulous fragrance
reaching for its completion
unheeded future
When did I first see it? In a pool of black, bobbing children
collected in the only swimming pool, desert town, summer,
when the heat hit like an explosion when you opened the door.
What did you do? We left.
When did I first feel it? At 2:30, crammed with other students
at the entrance to the buses. Someone threw a cherry bomb
directly at the crowd. One girl before me howled in pain, her leg
a raw exposure of her vulnerability.
What did you do? I ran to her and held her tight.
What evidence did you have of wide injustice?
Every black student that I met was starched and scrubbed
so that their mother’s hands were worn on their faces. Each one
excelled as though only ultimate success was good enough.
I taught. I read. I listened. And I loved.
What mistakes have you made that contributed to the problem?
I accepted the attention that came cheaply, satisfied to be a white girl
causing it.
What changed your mind, and your ways?
It may have been the teacher that I loved
who took me close into his mind but never violated my trust.
What was the essence of that experience? I learned that one need
we all share is to love and respect ourselves.
I learned that you can read this in a person’s eyes.
How did this change you, individually? After error,
there can be redemption. I saw power in the act of recognition.
How did this affect you? An unwanted pregnancy became my reason
for being.
What were your main obstacles? My parents feared that we would not
be accepted.
What did you decide in response? My son was beautiful; it was
the world’s problem to accept.
How have your concerns played out in your personal life?
I have watched people grow, sometimes after much distress.
All of my children live in a varied and indivisible world.
What can you do, now? Testify and love.
Although my colleague enjoys cooking,
he eats out to be in earshot of fellow diners.
Our dinner guests bring sunflowers, compliments,
neighborhood updates, and leave the table promptly.
My monthly lunch friends circulate photos of grandkids.
We admire our birthday cards as we await our orders.
I walk the neighborhood when the lights come on.
Twenty years and I still look for signs of life.
I am drawn to the un-shuttered homes with doors ajar
and visit with porch cats, emissaries from within.
My daughter says I need some friends.
You had brown eyes
with flecks of green-
just like your late mother.
I remember showing you,
every inch
of my veins.
we explored every cell
of ourselves,
never looking back.
But now,
we cant explore anymore-
because our veins have gone dry
no longer hungry for the prick.
the first blackberries of the year
were bitter relief hanging right there,
off an unexpected brier sprung up
underneath of the kitchen window.
there were a few good fat ones, too.
glowing dark and lush
against the trailer’s underpinning
they mocked me beautifully
after i’d scoured two ridges
on the hunt for fruit, foraging hard, desperate to find a pie
along a dirt road.
i never can seem
to keep ahead of the critters.
eager, i tromped down the grass
and picked them all,
careful not to drop a one,
forgetful of bare feet
and lurking copperheads.
i popped the whole handful into my mouth, greedy in the sunshine,
and I puckered up, tight,
and let out a holler that echoed
and scattered a flight of doves.
In my garden, I let her plant
a seed in a random spot
amongst the blooms, soon to be.
She would neither show me the seed
nor the general area she placed it,
but she made me promise
not to dig it up.
I could go searching
but it would kill the seed to rip it from
its earthy womb too early.
So I try not to think of the seed
even as I’m unable to forget its presence.
Temptation always pressing
but in the resistance, light.
I tend my little garden and this
precious patch of dirt
made sacred
by a good friend’s touch,
comfort in a promise
that as the days are good and bad
something beautiful is soon to bloom.
you were a bully
even your parents knew it
black sheep all the while
selfish, judgmental
loving yourself to the end
to us you were dad
I never had a horse, never rode a horse,
knew only Champion, Trigger and Silver,
mounts familiar through oaters. The lack
didn’t keep Mother from chastising me
for getting up on my high horse, telling me
not to get the cart before the horse,
or declaring You lack horse sense!
About the nearest I got to horses
was to sawhorses in Father’s workshop,
though I did touch Nashua on the nose
back in the day when casual visitors
could get close to equine royalty.
And I was damn close to horse while flirting
with a career in jazz piano.
Today, living in the self-styled
Horse Capital of the World, I enjoy
horses dotting the countryside, artistic
renderings by Andre Pater, the camera eye
of Tony Leonard, sculptures by Gwen Reardon
and the whimsical steeds of Horse Mania,
but I despair of politics and wonder
if the current climate signals
the coming of the Pale Horse.
RIP Colin 07/19/1989 – 06/26/2017
