Evening: Spring 1985
She--
in the blue flower print dress.
Cotton, vintage, scoop neck, white buttons--
scuffed faded black pointed toe flats.
Silver wrist bracelet
hanging loosely from her arm.
Standing, leaning against the wall.
Red painted nails. Mouth.
From the gray concrete, she rises from her toes.
Head down. Hair in face.
Suspect she desires a man unmet.
June
Spray-painted slogans we gaze upon from our seats.
Caustic emotions shared, clustered in silent coffees.
Stress rhythms as our hot heats control this shared space.
Yet again, betraying my sense of wonder, and surprise.
Looking younger, foolish, though my brown hair a mousy grey.
Watching your smile return to your lips,
your eyes flickering.
Undeniably happy in the place where your heart lies
in the atlas of memories; that page corner turned, bookmarked.
Discovered. Dusted.
Unclapsed. Opened.
Mama, After the Stroke
“Remind me. I want to write this down.”
Leaning over the tin tray. Pen in hand.
Hand quivering over the pad.
“When you were a little girl
You met Brother Andre in Quebec.
You graduated from Hackensack High School.
There are seven grandchildren.
I have a daughter. Has your eyes.”
Mama smiles. Gathers her peach bathrobe with her left hand.
Tight against her neck. The veins bulge.
Head slumps to shadow.
The pen slides over the pad.
“Remind me. I want to write this down.”
I repeat the information.
Buncombe County
A journey begun several feet beyond redemption
a line crossed, erased from behind.
Walking through trammeled ground
the path worn to a gully.
Have been here before.
The trees rise and reach.
Form a basilica--St. Lawrence's in Asheville comes to mind.
Long periods of silence
broken by the cries of the whippoorwills
chilled from a late spring breeze.
The light fades at the end of the trial.
When I arrive, it is night.
Gardens To Tend
I think of you
wearing a straw hat.
Scratching her arm, swatting flies
sweat dripping
face obscured to the chin
shadowed with teenage memory.
Sometimes this overwhelms the present--
notwithstanding epiphanies.
Alone in ourselves,
each self-contained.
We work our respective gardens.
Pulling up weeds, planting, watering--
patting the ground with muddy hands.
I interrupt my efforts occasionally to watch you work.
I look at your hands
the inward curves of several digits.
Slowly, my hand traces a row.
This, a solitary, narrow palo between us.
When I am done, I show this to you
and offer to share.
