PROMPT 4: Write a history poem.
Sidewalks
colored, Easter chalk,
drawing green twisting tendrils.
Sunny morning,
kneeling day
in white lacy gloves.
Mother’s warning,
“Take them off”
still ringing in my ears.
I remember
yellow blooms
big as her opened hand.
With sheers in hand,
draw out winter pain
by cutting to the quick.
My hibiscus can’t run like me,
stuck
kneeling deep in dirt.
Her thumbs whitened
white pressure spots
against her fist,
a contrast to the hot red
polish of her anger
toward him.
Four curved ‘C’s
lined up in her palm
the compression
of her fingernails,
the only order
her balled fists offered
to hide the
C allous,
C old,
C ruel,
C haos of her frustration.
When she C hipped
a nail,
he was smart enough
to run.
Cold winter winds
struck my forehead
sending me backwards,
mittens covering
what they could.
I learned a toe-heal
crunching loud boot step
that tested the path
I could not see,
until insecurity won
and I had to face the bitterness.
Feet forward now
I am walking
with my eyes open
as far as they go
without making myself
look like a character
in a bad B-movie
reacting to a ghostly
apparition.
Yet, I stumble again
walking where I shouldn’t go,
my mouth
leading me down
a bitter path
of pain
that cut my cord
to Momma.
My mittens
hold no solace.
The grocery bag split
spilling its contents
to the floor
where the eggs
took it upon themselves
to slither,
running with it.
He looked at me
wondering why I wasn’t
running for the towel
hanging within arm’s reach,
the logical thing to do.
Instead I held his arm
forcing a moment
to appreciate
the amebic forms
the whites created,
the yellow run of yolks.
Sharp yellow
cut by the jagged
white teeth of the shells,
started tears flowing
cutting lines in my make-up.
I looked at him.
He wasn’t running
away from my reach,
the logical thing to do.
Instead he held me
looking for the beauty
he knows is there,
somewhere in the mess.
It took more time
to put me back together.