Expressive Domain

Roots Made Cracks in Our Sidewalk

Photo by Patricia A. Hawkenson

I took my wagon
to the end of our block
knowing I could not go
any further.

Standing there
I waited
for my mother
to bring me
home.

It felt forever
till she came
gathering me
into her arms,
pulling my wagon
home.

It is closer
to our forevers now,
but I am not ready
to let you go.

If you could only tell me
what street to cross
to the corner
of Cancer and You,
I will bring
my wagon.

Ride with me.
Hang on tight.

It’s going to be
a bumpy ride
home.

Stability of a Three Cornered Stool

Her mother told her
it will better in the morning.

Go to sleep, little one.

Comforted, she sleeps.

Morning was not sunnier,
her pain spilling awake
with runny eggs.

He had his fill
of both women,
wife and mother-in law,
cornering him
again.

Go to hell, both of you!

Washing his hands of the matter
he left her to sop up
with a triangle of dry toast.

Vindicated, he walks.

This is a Test of the Emergency Broadcast System

WARNING:
DO NOT EAT CHOCOLATE PUDDING
at any social function
where cleanliness
is required!

While you squirm
unsuccessfully in her death grip,
your momma holds your chin
firmly by one hand
while licking the fingers
of her other hand.

You are rendered defenseless
against the Momma Slob
she slathers on your cheek,
her loving attempt
to spare you the embarrassment
of a chocolate smeared face.

You are mortified,
sweetly sticky,
wiping uselessly
with the back of your hand
in a futile effort
to salvage some dignity.

Roll your eyes
in disgust and disgrace,
but the humiliation
of Momma Slob
is a final exam
that can only be passed
when you are wise enough
to say, “No, thank you,”
when chocolate pudding is served.

Wonder Bread

I am wearing two Wonder Bread bags
over my socks again
because today the sun decided
to flips its calendar
from winter to spring
and I am there, stick in hand.

Stomping on crunchy blackened ledges,
I help the sun’s job along
creating a wider path for my boat
as it rides the gutter flow
again and again chased
up and down my street,
water blockades formed and destroyed.

Squishing without wetness
inside my leaky rubber boots,
I pour out today’s collection
and pity the kids whose mothers
don’t serve them Wonder Bread.

Grandma’s Locket

Every woman desires
the kind of summer
that blushes in heat
where mothers glance
away from shock
clutching their pearls
with a string of woes.

But hell be damned
you went to bed
that summer night
with warnings and jewelry
away on the shelf
clutching him tightly
where men would moan.

Every woman deserves
the kind of memory
that lingers with time
allowing elderly smiles
to remember the past
away from today
clutching their loves,
not a string of lies.

Sands Through the Hour Glass

Digging into morning sand
they build a temporary castle
while their stories invent
the hidden occupants.

A moat is dug deep
with hands and buckets
as the water flows
around them all.

Finally protected
from beast and foe,
her daughter smiles
beyond her cheeks.

But only a mother
can measure the day
when her five o’clock tired
is finally built up.

The distance between them
was shortened through play,
so it’s time to pack up
and head for home.

Think Cool Thoughts

When it is 95 and so oppressive
that your hair drips at your neckline
and stickiness is the order of the day,
think cool thoughts.

Think of frost on the windowpane
where your fingers press designs
like puffy thumbprint flowers
with your nails dragging crystals
into the lines of your boyfriend’s name
until numbness forces you to stop.

Remember the effort of shoveling snow
with the sidewalk longer
than it is in summer
and your fingers must be pulled
from their individual coats
into the space of your glove’s palm
until numbness forces you to stop.

Think of cracking ice cubes
from the old-fashioned trays
where ice shards cling to the plastic
and your fingernails have to dig them out
until you have enough to for a blender
full of orange juice and brandy slush
and you drink your fill
until numbness forces you to stop.

But I’m not there yet,
so pour me another
and drink cool thoughts.

Can You Hear Me Now?

When I walked into the wheat field
my shoes stirred up the dusty ground
and brown spitting grasshoppers
jumped up and clung to my pants.

I jumped myself and danced
around and around with my arms
flailing against the sky
and I screamed a few words
that would have sent my mother
to the bathroom for a bar of Ivory.

But she had gone to town
and left me to run like the wild chickens
under Grandma’s watchful eyes
which still work good,
unlike her ears.

But I could hear Grandma laughing
as she stepped in the furrows
to call me in to lunch with the scent
of freshly baked molasses cookies,
and even Grandma could hear me drool.

Eat at Joe’s

Small cafés are not large enough
to fit the thousand words
that a picture is worth,
so their patrons discuss
every facet of life with an upward nod
of their heads and four simple words:

Hot enough for ‘ya.

They could be describing
the coffee, the weather,
the new waitress, etc., etc., etc.

It is not a question.
Not really even an observation.
Just expected routine conversation
that can be filled in with
any assortment
of interchangeable descriptors
as varied as the menu:

Cold enough for ‘ya.
Windy enough for ‘ya.
Boring enough for ‘ya.
Etc., etc. etc.

And when the plates are cleared
and the bills paid,
they go home and ask everything
that no one wanted to know
with four simple words:

How was your day?

Honey Dew

Under the garage eaves
a mother’s wing ruffles
and allows the sun
to awaken her brood.

In their hunger for morning
they beckon you to greet them
if only you’ll sprinkle
a half bag of seed.

Then the flowers call
arguing which weed
must be yanked from the ground
so only their beauty can grow.

And it feels like everyone
has a job for you to do
that must be written down
before you forget
so you open the patio umbrella
and sit down to write.

But standing up quickly,
the stain on your backside
records last night’s rain
so laundry is moved
to the top of the list.

Veiled Desire

The curtain
soft and gauzy
was so thin
you could see
her fingers
retracing
sensuous
curves
against the glass
as she brushed
them aside
to wait.

He was coming home.

She opened
the window
allowing the air
to lift her
anticipation
and dance
the curl
across her
forehead
but she had to
tame it.

He was coming home.

He was coming home.
He was coming home.
He was coming home.

The curtain
hangs
its length
now long
and heavy
pooling
at the bottom
with the loneliness
she left there.

And she was going out.

Revamping an Old Dress

My mother has a tape measure
that she keeps in a cellophane zip lock bag
tangled among bobbins and sewing machine attachments
with spools of fading thread unwinding
unwinding
down in the bottom of grandma’s old buffet.

She takes it out to measure me
for she says I keep growing
growing
and she can’t tell by looking at me just where.

So I have to stand up straight no slouching
slouching
and she shouldn’t have to remind me how to stand still
because I should be able to tell that she can’t talk
with a hundred pins in her mouth.

My disapproving lip curls
matching the rick-rack trim
that my mother is using to cover the lowered hem
but I can’t hide
hide
that I wanted a new store bought dress.

And I try not to cry
cry
when a pin meant for the dress
finds the slip of my thigh
and my mother’s tight lip frown
shouts that I haven’t measured up after all.