Grandma told me
vanity is a sin
of many single women
while I was innocently
unaware that my uncle
had a secret
till the heat of the day
forced him to reveal
what was under
the covering
of his social deceit
and I couldn’t help
looking
his back
covered in hair
and imagined
my aunt
brushing 100
and I suddenly decided
never to marry
and ran to the water
begging forgiveness
My slippers made no sound
as I crept with the morning
to curl in Grandma’s wingback
and tuck my robe over my legs.
If my cat had the quiet foresight
to know that I was leaving
a shedding of myself
into the ambient air
of that that room,
she never warned me.
Now here, in the same chair
that moved with us
to this different place,
I feel the baldness
of myself
exposed to no one
but my cat.
Now knowing
my own shameful
revealing of my regrets,
I yearn for the opportunity
to go back
and gather up
the bits I left of myself.
Back in the old house
where the floorboards
knew where I should walk,
other slippers
have swept my dust.
Grandma had a wringer washer
that could crack your arm
if you were so foolish
as to hang on
when the cloth
compressed.
The bucket caught
the dirty liquid
that the clothes
could no longer bare.
I think when your sadness
leaked onto me,
I absorbed more
than you released.
I carried it,
sloshing and spilling out
overflowing with my silence,
and you never felt
the loss
of a drop.
Put another sticker,
a shiny clean star,
on my chore chart.
I have earned it today.
I am strong now
sitting on the rocker.
My feet push against
the wooden plank floor
and I cuddle my elbows
inside of my sleeves.
Looking through the screen
to the hillside beyond,
the earth’s boney spine
curves up within its
fall sweater, too,
trying to find warmth.
The farmer has abandoned
the field and the waving arms
of dying corn
try to lure my eyes
into the depressions
between its rows.
But leaves are already
clinging in broken bits
to the bottom of my jeans.
I have traveled
through the maze.
I pick them off.
No sense wondering
what I left
clinging in the cornfield
now that I am
free.
My grandma’s radiator had a bleed valve
that had a little wicker woven tassel
hanging from its side.
She warned me not to touch it
’cause it was HOT!
Sometimes she let me watch her
turn the valve with the bleed key
releasing collected pressure
with a hissing steam.
sssssssss…
Grandma is no longer with me.
I’m afraid I need that key.
I feel the heating pressure
building next to me,
’cause you are HOT!
sssssssss…
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.
There was a mountain of stairs
leading to my Grandma’s apartment
and I always lost count
before I got to the top.
Her apartment was small
but exciting for a six-year-old to visit
because it was filled with intriguing tchotchkes
like clocks spinning dancing ballerinas
and ceramic peeing dogs.
Grandma also had a real chirping bird
that was smart and learned real fast
as he hopped from his ladder to his swing.
She would lovingly lay a blanket
over his cage and almost instantly
he would go to sleep.
But Grandma also had a fox
who kept biting his tail
and he must not have been too swift
because she wore him every Sunday to church
wrapped around her neck.
A grim warning for a little girl
who was reminded again
to practice her counting.
Bonfires on the beach
send their sparks flying
exciting the nighttime stars.
And their jealousy
reflecting on the sparkling water
is bringing the town to life.
The smelt are running
and if you own a net
you’re already in the water.
Your waders offer little protection
against cold possessive Superior
who is fighting to keep her fish.
Yet washtubs are filling
with tiny flopping silver
that you knife open upon the spot.
And their jealousy
brings the empty net fishermen
to your smoking charcoal grill.
Where the splashing of beer
catching fish and fishermen
is bringing the town to life.
The memory of beer batter frying
woke my tongue before the sun
and lured me to the kitchen
where Mom was slicing apples,
but my quick slice of toast was lacking.
No matter. I was going fishing.
I grabbed my gear and headed out
while the sun insisted louder than my mother
that a hat is necessary if I want to see
the fish swimming just under morning’s glare
while I dangle my toes off the end of the dock.
No matter. I was fishing.
The bait welcomed the chance to help me
as they danced their wiggly choose me dance,
and it was up to me to pick just the right one
that Big Bob wanted to nibble on today
but even after ten sure to tempt lures,
Big Bob wasn’t biting.
No matter. I was fishing.
The morning, without so much as a thank you,
slowly ate up my worms leaving me
with a defeated empty string line,
so I was heading home.
No matter. Mom was baking pies.
Some things are great in threes,
like 3 Stooges, 3 blind mice,
or 3 wise men.
You can run a 3 legged race,
ride a 3 wheeler,
or watch the 3 Ring Circus.
You can make a 3 point landing
or get 3 cheers before
3 strikes and you’re out.
But everyone knows
that 3’s a crowd.
so when teenage girls,
best friends forever
with the 3 faces of Eve,
pretend to be the 3 mustketeers,
you know that their world
is about to explode.
Grandma told her
more times than she could count
that she was special,
so special,
and soon everyone would see that.
So she expected nothing less
when she tried to get those foolish girls
to see her idea,
her special idea.
But all through the class
her friends wouldn’t listen
and kept changing the discussion
to some ridiculous thing,
or another.
Later she tells Grandma
what idiots, those ordinary girls are
who haven’t a clue
about what could be cool,
so trendy and cool.
Couldn’t they see?
Later her pillow absorbs no comfort
for she is too stubborn
to give up her tears,
her special tears.
Our bedroom had old hardwood floors
that hid a treasure right out in the open,
a painted rusty metal grate,
and through its slats you could overhear
everything a child wanted to know.
So when your parents were down below
playing cribbage with your cousin’s parents,
it took great skill to cover your mouth quickly.
Your shocked inhalations shouldn’t be heard
sending Dad’s cards flying down onto the table
and his feet to the stairs.
So we listened with the kind of intensity
that our teacher was hoping
could have been applied to science.
If only she knew
what we knew
from listening at the grate.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.