My white knuckled grip
and bullying treads
have no effect
on the slippery slopes
and my wheels laugh
as I slide
too close
but the road
goes on
like the childhood song
goes on
and on
so once again
I’m icy
dicey
driving
my favorite
fear.
Dumped upon
and buried
under months
of icy glances,
beneath the layers
I’m frozen
solid as winter dirt.
Somehow I must
find the warmth
I need
to release
my hold on bitterness,
so I can freely grasp
the sunny daffodils,
who always know
when it’s time
to rise.
Winter comes
with bitter warnings.
“Don’t eat that
yellow snow.”
Mother’s predictions of death
froze me in my tracks.
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 snow began softly.
I’m not sure if I can remember
when one flake landed alone.
Then it became crystal clear
as I watched the ground morph
thick into the white of the sky.
You came up behind me
putting a jacket over my sweater,
a gesture of kindness
before everything snowballed.
It was meant as an apology
to block out the cold words
that were landing thick and staying
as long as winter.
But my brothers taught me
to pack a snowball hard with ice
chucking it to cut on contact
while I dress in layers
staying soft and warm.
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?