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I shouldn’t be here, sleeping not by choice:

potion holds me.  Unholy healing witchcraft

shows unseeing eyes dark images dancing a brilliant array of contortions,

swaying, seething, suffering as

I watch in delighted horror.

Enveloped I sense the presence of those who would wake me

from visions: they come and go unpredicted.  Clinging still

an aftertaste of the life that was.

Images return, bringing drumbeats:

Arrhythmic thumping,

thumping,

thumping.

Indecision weights legs now heavy;

I cannot.

I will not.

I want not.

I shouldn’t be here where I can feel the pull of my heart’s breath;

my veins and I float in calm terror.  Clarity has fled

chased by swelling colored shapes.

The hue of life tries a return.

I sense the call away from dark dancers.

New light comes to windows unused, unfocused and

contortionists take a final bow.

I enter an uncharted wakefulness.

I Still Want to be Mom

Forget what I said earlier -

it’s not really a thing I can

quit.

I mean, certainly, there are days

and hours and

weeks when my incompetence

comes to light. 

Actually, you bring it to me:

gift wrapped with good intentions and lost memories

covered in mud, anger, sticks, and grassy bits

or stabbed through with plaintive arrows of discontent and bad manners.

Still, squeezing the meanness of life narrows visions because you also

present:

playful antics, made up words,
cherries from the bottom of your slushy that

you probably sucked on but I eat them anyway when you offer them,

and

I’d just like you to forget what I said earlier.

Featured

Films feature unsmall histories;

    fancy yourself a star, but

can you be if all others are also?

Impossible.

Wretches, golden boys, diamond girls

   congregate, walking over long-

   eclipsed shades marked by sunken ideograms.

Thousand story souls hold parallel intersects –

   all imperfect, and none as weighty as first

   thought.

Bits are rusted by unexpected sneers –

   rude unwrapped.  Wounding.

When shadows pervade and flit

   past mirrors, we all reflect

   the boisterous grief of being no more

   than a fishwife – droll on screen but

   lurid in the flesh.

Hypnotic half-truths engage the viewers.

The screenwriter should be fired.

vase

bowl of translucence

proudly standing

and holding

sparklers of nature

refracting earth’s bounty

keeping watch –

a balance – air

proudly blooms light

seasonal explosions with

colors are hard to hide

April 26 Georgia

A boy mows the field next to the

            Senior Center: offices locked

            but blue bars and stars decorate

            signs out front.

Southern mists rise, pulling names

            from graves – a haunting –

            families foraged from left over

            people who did not foresee faults.

Collards and black-eyed peas glance

            at luck; chicken and dumplings

            bridge religion – not race.

Those keys are kept in generational pies -      

            though quick acquaintance

            can be had over pond seining –

            fish fries – or moonshine.

They won’t look, but fingers cross and

            casseroles cover wounds and scars

            built in eternity.

There is no end.

His grandfather is buried at Mr. Elam’s

            feet – there’s a rub that cannot

            be dug up.

Recollected history means more

            on this day than textbooks

            and undiluted sweet tea memories

            float up Freeman Harris Road.

This is more than we think it is.

regular

half past seven and he’s here

  (everybody says seven-thirty

     around here but there’s

     something about him that

     makes you say half past seven.)

he’s here for a plate of meat and potatoes,

but never the two should meet unless in the

depths of his gizzard where bourbon and

bitters wash freely.

every day. half past seven.

every day meat

  (even on fridays but i’ve never

     asked him if he’s a heretic)

and potatoes.

no chef’s specials. no

chocolate pie. no pasta salad.

no green beans.

his hair has thinned but he’s not crotchety.

we know what he likes and jamie

serves him after marty makes up the plate

in the back. 

Concealed

A large brown neatly zipped purse

is what Miss Martha Dupree carried to

room 111 at Butler High School.

Every day for forty-three years

Miss Martha locked that satchel

in the lower left cabinet drawer.

She did not get out lipstick or

loose change during the day.  Locked in,

no one could differentiate the bag from the dark air.

Every day for forty-three years

Miss Martha retrieved her purse and

walked peacefully out to her Pontiac

or Chevrolet and drove home.

Her bag stood on her sideboard

 in the darkened dining room every day

except Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

Those days the upstairs back closet

was where it reposed.

Every day for forty-three years

on the weekends and during the summers

Miss Martha’s large brown purse went

with her to church on Sunday and

to the Piggly Wiggly on Saturday mornings.

She carried the bag dutifully

to the doctor yearly

and the dentist biannually.

One bag and the same or several identical

replaced with age and wear? For all of those years

 no one knew what she carried.  

Addiction

She has one. 

“It’s like gripping gold.”

You know who you are

for a week, a month, a year.  Identity assigned

and her heart can rest while her mind holds words,

movements, reactions, emotions,

prescribed in layers beneath that fleeting assignment. It’s all there –

no excuses for not knowing. She can have

a good dinner and a trip to Walgreen’s. She will save

them all in a shoe box from back home. It’s not easy but

she clings to this life and that paper.  But,

as soon as this one’s done,

she craves the next. Without her call sheet,

she’s no one.

The Last Time I Was Here

Baby bottles, mismatched sock, and an old cookie under the couch that gathered dog hair –

There’s oil stains in the driveway and a wrench clearly forgotten on the peg board.

Cheerful mums seem out of place on the side stoop.

Shouldn’t they be moved to the front?

But the front is actually the back and there’s no avoiding dog-pee dead grass on that side.

A small patio is sheltered by the neighbors’ balcony where they grill but aren’t supposed to.

Chores were done or went undone as did promises and leaving wasn’t an option entertained early in the day, but it must’ve come to visit because the last time I was here still echoes.

May 31, 1911

No white dress but today she’s

  coming out.

Thousands spellbound, not knowing inside

  she was incomplete and -  excepting

  a few days  – would

  always be empty, always

  alone. Still,

today she would launch,

  unfitted but beautiful.  She’d never go back --

  the applause and champagne and music would

  follow until death yawned and

  swallowed. 

But today no prescience – joy and

  admiration and expectation

  hang in Irish air.

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who kept close

cutting apples

hands held

pressed shirts

all smiles on

easter sunday

christmas morning

valentine dinner

carseat installed

playground sand

daily lunches

safe crossings

tree branches

candles melted

made beds

training wheels off

toy boats capsized

not so real ones

afloat all that matters

stronger then

smaller now

or is it the other way

grow up

grow out

grow away