Mourning
I’m sorry
I have no room
In my heart
For a poem today.
People are always looking for something,
like the sanitation worker who’s grass
is covered with yard ornaments.
We can only guess where they came from,
the remnants of the lives we lead
that someone saw as valuable or at least
worthy in some way and to be respected.
During the night
I put such demands
on myself. It’s always
climb and then climb more–
unswerving uphill.
My dreams shine a light
on an orderly life
arrow-aimed at perfection
all straight lines
sharp edged.
I’m always relieved
when morning comes
and I think ok I’m human
and one step at a time
I can do this.
I turn on the teapot,
anticipate the cup warm
in my hand.
My daughter
already knows her
body is both a
currency and a
liability.
She poses
strategically; you will
hardly ever
catch her lost in a
candid moment of
purely inhabiting her
physical space as she used to.
She inherits the impossible
awareness of every
woman- her
seductive power, and
hyper-vigilance
against unwanted
attention.
Her shoulders
too distracting to future
men trying to
learn, her thighs too
sensual to carry
her between classes all
bare and
tempting.
Her breasts will
eventually come for
her, as her mothers’, aunts’ and
grandmother’s have.
Her womb is
claimed as property of
the state, that
collective consciousness
deeming her heart,
her dreams,
her future
contributions irrelevant,
secondary to her
evolutionary function.
As if she
wasn’t already
afraid and
ashamed
enough.
A thirsty soul and an old dog
sit on the steps of Hope
in Christ Church,
once upon a time
the Burger Queen.
It’s early or late.
She drives to see her mother.
At the light, she sees a high school beau
in a rusty pickup at Buckner’s Realty
which used to be the Shoney’s.
An entanglement of strings
some loose, some taunt looped
in the air on electric poles.
She sees the park, those impatient days
watching babies pick at blades of grass
in wonder, her mind on a list
of elegant goals she made
when she was 12, when the city pool
was near the bypass, when
Gentry Apartments were the
tobacco warehouse.
The elementary school now
hollowed out by fires is
Two Sisters Antiques
a tea room hush serving
gazpacho and banana muffins.
The light turns green.
She is seventeen and 42.
The world a sacred space,
the only one that matters.
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Sweat dripping down my forehead
sand glued between my toes
the crunch of an unwanted
piece in my teeth
and the sun happily frying
every inch of my body.
Waves pounding against
my knees
shells grazing my feet
and the pure bliss
of waves so loud
you can’t hear my family’s
bickers on the shore.
Her life is upended
by the startling embrace
of his sidelong glance.
Within hours, they are pulled
into orbit around each other.
She is sunflare and heat.
He is prismed energy sparked
carelessly. Clear to everyone else
they are on the wrong trajectory:
edgy southern charm collides
with midwest farm town restlessness.
Romance is the flavor
she has been craving.
He offers spice
she’s never tasted,
so delicious
after the bitterness of divorce.
Foolish Pleasure
wins the Derby, becomes
their inside joke
and a sign they celebrate. Clear
to everyone else,
they’re likely to fade in the stretch.
