“Blacksnake.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 2 (Fall 2005).
Blacksnake
Coiled in my path like an ampersand.
My heart beats an ellipsis . . .
Punctuates the sentence of my original sin.
Serpent conjunction links me to my base nature.
What was beautiful about you before you came between
Adam & Eve?
HOUSECLEANING
I set my mop bucket
beneath the downspout
so grit that sits at
bucket’s bottom
returns to earth
around my house.
Carried in on work boots and bare feet:
pine needles, walnut leaves, grass,
gravel, mulch, and mud.
Pulled from outside in.
I wipe away the grime of life:
disappointment, anger, grief, and fear.
Pushed from inside out.
Now the stringy-headed mop
propped on the porch
surveys my mess,
while I polish my joy.
“Housecleaning.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 2 (Fall 2006).
Blacksnake
This poem is a little sad for me now, and a bit ironic. I divorced him the next year.
STRAWBERRY SEASON
I visit farms
Where you strut through fields
You’ll never own.
Your wife and kids look like you:
Jeans, plaid shirts, long black hair.
Quick-fingered, they pick strawberries.
At home, I hull fat berries,
Shock them with ice water,
Add sugar and cream
To cut the tart zing.
I gorge myself,
Run my thumb across my stained lips,
My mouth as red as your fingertips.
There is dirt on your hands,
And no matter where you stand,
Sun sears your skin.
Do you entertain bitter thoughts
As you plop sweet, red drops
Into your bucket?
Or is it this simple?
After strawberry season,
Peaches come . . .
Then tomatoes.
“Strawberry Season.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 1 (Spring 2006).
STINGS
Yellow jacket nest
Smack dab in the middle of a meadow
On Granddad’s farm.
Barbs . . . darts . . . arrows . . .
Pierced the flesh in the girl’s shorts,
The tender skin beneath her blouse.
Granny removed her clothes,
Exposed welts bigger than
The budding breasts that shamed the eleven-year-old.
The child had posed before her bedroom mirror,
Paper wadded in her shirt,
Until Mom caught her.
Later her father flung open the door,
Tossed two cups
Cut from a Styrofoam egg carton
And laughed.
His poison pricked her
Worse than a thousand
Yellow jacket stings.
“Stings.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 1 (Spring 2006).
SAWMILL BURNING
Butterflies burn in the purple night.
Gossamer blisters twist,
Fall on our faces,
But it’s only luminous ash
That clings to our wet skin.
In the dark a single spark brings it all down.
Full fuel tank roars a dragon’s wrath.
Sawdust and sheet metal meld.
Flames incinerate uncut logs:
Futile death of trees.
My husband sees his life’s work
Flit and fly across the sky
In unbearable embers.
Glowing orange . . .
Then grey . . .
Now white.
Will it melt on my tongue, like snowflakes?
Or taste salty, like tears?
His sawmill burned three days.
Richard brought me its fused beauty:
A lump of metal and wood,
Silver, porous as coral, eerie.
It sits on a shelf,
Reminds us of destruction.
And resurrection.
“Sawmill Burning.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 2 (Fall 2006). 2006
Appalachian Writers Association James Still Award for Poetry, Third Place.
