Is it so bad the sun didn’t show today?
My nun professor once started class with seventeen obscenities
then cautioned, If you can not or will not say any of these unholies with confidence,
you will never be a good interpreter. Practice saying them while vacuuming
until you can hear yourself over the vacuum.
Eighty-nine minutes left to curse like Chloë Grace Moretz in two languages
Since it’s Pentecost Sunday my bottom was in a pew this morning
since it’s summer in KY my butt mowed the backyard this afternoon
that triple black diamond and those tongues of fire
licked me up one side and down the other
I’m a good Christian and even better interpreter
I watch as she steps outside,
into a patch of overhead lamp.
In this moment, her body is isolated;
light shines down, chiaroscuro playing shadows on features.
Eyes and lashes disappear, hair becomes darker.
Her clothing is marble, each crease carved in white.
A statue stands where she was, once.
Centuries have already passed, an ancient sculpture
enduring the ages with grace.
She breathes again, walks over to me,
the stone softening into a being,
young
and laughing.
dedicated to Pricy Addington
The reverend from the Licking Rock Baptist Church
was known for ‘going on’ – he would get the spirit
and there was no telling when the spirit
would let him be. Many a time I sat with my
Big Mama in her pew up on Craft’s Colley near
Ermine. Lordy they sang.
Raised their hands and sang. Loud – some would
faint. I wasn’t afraid because my Big Mama
was beside me. But, Lordy they raised a ruckus.
So when Big Mama’s time came and we were preparing
to send her off to the Lord, there was a crowd
from all over Letcher County. She was a magistrate’s
wife and spent plenty of talking time at the courthouse.
She was a storyteller and everyone from the hairdresser
to the postman knew her and her stories. She had
worked at one time as a maid at the Daniel Boone
hotel. She had some stories from there too.
My mother, the youngest of 13 Addington children, shows
the morning of the funeral having come in from West Virginia
in her sporty red Mercedes convertible…well, let’s just
say everyone knew Jean was in town. And she, her elegant self
(with a sassy blond updo) had on a silky little black dress.
Perfectly apropos.
She had added her own flare to the look – a crystal
necklace, tight to her neck, looking exactly like a man’s
neck tie.
All sparkly and brilliant and bold.
She was always breaking molds.
That was my mother. Getting notices from every corner of the room.
Secure in her presentation and statement. She chatted among
the mourners.
And, then, she eyed the Baptist preacher – a large, round red-faced man as I recall. My mother motioned for the two of them to talk in private.
She made no excuses. She pointedly told him that she wanted him to keep his comments about her mother to a minimum.
The preacher threw his hands in the air and said,
Sister Jean, I have no control over this.
I pray for the Lord to lead me in what I will say about Sister Pricy.
I only do what He tells me to do. I follow the vision and the words
He gives me and that is what I am put on this earth to do.
I just listen to the Lord, ma’am, just talk with the Lord.
She told him,
Well, I talked with the Lord myself last night and he told me to tell you to keep it short.
Some say my mother got above her raising.
I think she was right where she needed to be.
Already, (not) a steady hand on the hull of a phrenology skull
A brain
Built malformed in continuity, but with a pronounced ridge
of reverence.
Veneration laid –not— to that which didn’t kill us
But to the parts of us pinched
away.
I heard if you leave the wild garlic where it grows, that thing you want
will come right for you.
Couldn’t miss it if you tried. Just stay planted.
But my aunt paid us–penny a pop—to pull the tiny bulbs from the walkways
Who knows what they want when they’re nine or thirty-nine?
I’m not good at being still.
Tonight my son told me about his sadness
earlier in the day, while I was away from him
(working in another room that might as well have been fifty miles away).
He spied a picture of our dog
who died last spring
and his thoughts turned in on themselves,
curling like burning paper.
I could see it because we share that gene,
the chemical that makes a bright room dark,
a lovely moon
just a reminder that one day
we won’t be here to see it.
I kissed his soft little boy’s temple
and told him I was sorry
he felt sad,
all the while cursing
the part of me
that failed to protect him in the womb.
I consider myself a smartass poet,
Incorporating off-the-wall comedy and sarcasm into my writing.
But can I compose a serious, thoughtful piece that stands on its own?
OK, I’ll give it a shot:
Are reason and common sense things of the past?
Have we lost our way, allowing regressive mob mentality to rule?
Is the world really coming to an end in 2050?
I remember being taught to do the right thing for its own sake,
To reject material gain if it meant compromising my principles.
But the real world seemed to have rules for success and survival.
I didn’t lose my way,
Rather, I just couldn’t stay on course.
OK, this is depressing.
Right now, I just want to ask what this fly is doing in my soup,
Or how that elephant got into my pajamas.
Well, I tried.
