i do

pauline is such a country name.

 

 

 

When Granddad died, Grandma just stopped eating.

It is so strange, deaths

antependium

hanging for 92 years

on the front of altars.

This stillness is hard for me,

 

this coal tar distillation.

Only sharecroppers actually return

to the dirt.

When we burried Grandma

she had wasted to skin and bones.

 

I could see her ribs that she was so

proud to show, and a proved shrewishly

that ever smiling,

"ready to go" she would say.

The universe must allow

 

the observer to exist and although primitive,

you dare not say a word

till it's complete. Can you

imagine not knowing of Augustine,

not ever seeing a Degas,

 

reading Dickinson or hearing Bird

play with strings? In fact not knowing

any music, save the gospel chorus on

Sunday under a picture of Jesus

as she prayed, no doubt, for

 

human castaways. Her and Grandad met

by accidental illumination when she was 12

and he a renascent 14. I saw the photo of

flower inflorescence, brighter than

any love I have ever known,

 

and no doubt more sensuous. No horns blowing

in driveways then. No mini dresses. No bare arms.

Then you came to the door and was looked over

by parents, not for approval but for worthiness.

 

Only then it was 'take me as I am'. Love me.

Give me children. Let's live together

and then un-live until we show our ribs

made bold by the sweeping gestures

of little sustenance.

Reviews

[Emily B]

i would put this piece of work beside maya angelou and toni morrison and all those

where do you reckon a body would go to nominate you for poet laureate status, grassroots petitions ought to be heard