The story always goes according to his account,
and girls like me get little to say in the matter,
absolutely no credit either.
They paint me as they want you to see me,
not as I am.
The way it's been told, people must think quite highly of that boy,
that 'Ah, Porphyro,'
who was all 'Oh, my dearest' this, and 'Oh, my fairest' that;
that sleek young man; he only wanted a peek, right?
Anyway, it was a damned cold night;
after all, how can a castle not be drafty, the blasted place?
I was as energetic as anyone could be after a day of fasting,
and exceedingly bored, sadly bored.
All that silly praying had worn my head out. I'm not that pious.
What I wanted to do was go to my room,
hit the bed, and not be disturbed.
But who asked me what I wanted?
And I thought it was unfair
that all I got out of it, besides an empty stomach,
was a few sweet dreams
(which, honestly, I could've conjured up on my own;
a healthy girl doesn't need the advent of an old dead virgin's martyrdom
to have visions of lovers.
How would she have known anyway?)
So on my way to bed u went;
I had a little trouble going to sleep.
Finally, though, I did drift off,
until something rustled at my head
and woke me.
It was music, and it was annoying.
Who would be sitting there
but (least expected and most unwelcomed) Porphyro,
just staring at me?!
I didn't plead with him; he probably told you that I did.
What I wanted to know was how he got into my room.
I should've guessed it was that wretched Angela,
trying to give me what she never had, never would have.
I didn't need her matchmaking skills.
I didn't need anything but sleep and food. The dreams I could handle
on my own."
you know she must have tried as much as the dead can
to make it up that hill, back up steep steps leading to the world she'd left.
surely she did.
she knew he thought of her as a frightening thing,
and maybe he was just letting her follow him,
so she hung her head and treaded too quietly behind.
maybe she thought they'd make it.
but she probably knew when the journey ended
before the first foot set out, and only plodded on like a prisoner
out of a lack of belonging. she was a ransom and felt held.
as the pebbles rolled and fell under their feet,
she felt a give of strength, felt his determination loosening, felt him
starting to wonder...
"Are you there? Can I see you, my darling?"
and he, just far enough away from divinity to be human, couldn't rest on her presence
as if it were an idea;
between them was the bridge of mute faith that hangs just the same between any two people,
and when he tried to cross it...
gone was she quick as he closed his pointlessly regretful eyes
and the darkness jumped int light that swallowed him.
he held the thought in his throat like we all do and choked on it.
stopping too soon can end the journey as much as a wrong turn;
not only were they not pacing themselves to reach some fresh air,
but they were going the wrong way altogether.
nothing can come from the too dark places we only once know to ourselves,
no matter how sweet the song is to woo it.
it was just that Orpheus didn't want to believe
that dead was dead and the same was she.
it is this simple doubt that killed him;
it is this same doubt that takes all our voices into exclusive silence.
When I hear of Mississippi, I hear of a homeland rooted in joy and pain. I hear of cold hearts where only the thought of the Confederates once sang. Yet in the shadows of the cotton fields, the haunting sounds of homegrown spirituals still ring. I hear of a place where color draws imaginary lines--you live on your side and I'll live on mine. I hear of the church of divided colors that separately sing the same song, "Oh, Lord, make me Thine."
When I see Mississippi, I see the invisible covers of progress still shadowing me. I see a mirror of a nation that has tried to determine my fate. But as America's bastard child, I believe in the American Dream, and I remember everything is not what it seems. I see the homeland of the free and the brave, and I refuse to separate and let oppression shackle my mind with desperate chains.
When I feel Mississippi, I feel pride as deep as the River's mouth. I feel anguish that the rainbow's colors never seem to shin. I feel the pain of a fatherless child that through his eyes the child can't be seen. I feel compassion for my fair-skinned brothers and sisters who by fact belong, and I, too, in fact, still reach out to my home. I feel hope that one day right will not always mirror wrong.
When I think of Mississippi, I think that I was blessed to call her my home. Her beauty
creates a peace that the angels sing heavenly song. I think of a peace that will one day come to all
hearts and she will know that all of Mississippi's children have a place they can belong. This is
what I think when I think of Mississippi.
I was stunned! How could he do such a thing?
We had flown together for twenty one years,
Through turbulent winds, across stormy seas,
Above massive mountains and sweeping drylands.
We were a team...what did he mean?
Was he going to fly alone?
Then miles above the earth I saw him smile wryly
As he steered the plane westward
......a new copilot by his side.
Hanging by sheer threads of determination
I clutched the ropes of the parachute tighter
Time seemed to hold me still in midair
As memories, like pieces of luggage, passed me by.
A red brick house atop a green hill,
Swingsets, sandboxes, and tricycles
A flower garden filled with purple irises
The picnic table loaded with chocolate cake,
fried chicken, and homemade biscuits
An oak tree, once full and green, now
lifeless and gray
Looking upward, I saw blue nothingness
All around me the world was spinning too fast
Below, the earth resembled a huge brown millstone
Thoughts of terror began to fill my head....
"Where will I land?" "Will I survive?"
"Will I be shattered into a thousand pieces?"
"OH, MY GOD! JUST LET ME DIE QUICKLY!"
I awoke with a jerk.
Breathing a sigh
of relief, I studied the whit swirls
of plaster on the ceiling above my bed.
It wasn't a dream.
I had landed with my feet on the ground!
I wonder who these stars
shine for this late at night?
As I walk through the woods
the moonlight sneaks in between
the trees casting shadows of
silent light.
Looking to the moon, its
appearance, now as before,
gives me no evidence who
it might be for.
The horn blows a angel's song
as gentle sleep is sent outward
from the darkness above, taking
the body by warming the heart
and soul with its light.
Still the moon and stars don't
answer my question.
Who do these stars shine
for this late at night?
Why is the night sky so beautiful?
Who besides me will ever see
this show of lights?
What does this night hold
in store?
Maybe there is an answer
coming down the stair path
of moonbeams that fall to
the dark earth below.
Is it sending a message to
someone other than me?
Will someone leave this earthly life
and walk these stairs towards
heaven tonight?
The time neither right or wrong
chooses when to come.
Knowledge of this celestial
light must be held by those
who walk at night. Those who
are familiar with the stars
that shine. They know the
secret, the answer that is
yet to come.
I know the time will come when
the moon will call to me and
answer my questions that I
ask tonight.
I want to be acquainted with
this heavenly host.
I will have that answer of
who your light is for.
Death
Death concealed in the light
comes to take a loved one
this very night.
They will see the horned moon
and the stars that shine so bright.
The heaven holds this glorious
sight, I will get my chance to see.
Until my time comes, I will walk
through the darkness of the night
and wonder who will go to see
this splendid sight.
The stars and moon will hold
tight their tongues, for only those
chosen will still see the sun.
The tiniest little pond baby
Who wanted to be the prettiest fish
Swimming in the crystal clear spring
Late at night under the moon.
The pond was by Grandfather's house
And one night the bright light
Drew him up like the light
On the porch attracts a baby
Moth sometimes to our house.
The shine pulled the fish
Through the sky to the moon
Until he could swim in the spring
In a crater that was like the spring
At Grandfather's, with light
On it from the night's full moon.
Since he was only a baby
And not a grown up fish
He wanted to be back at Grandfather's house
So that he'd know the house
And the clear, familiar spring
And he could see his family fish
And be away from the light
That would hurt his little baby
Eyes from the too-bright moon.
But he was stuck in the moon
And couldn't come back to Grandfather's house,
Back like he wanted, like a baby
To his home in the spring.
No, he became the light
And lives forever as the fish
In the moon. Now he is the light
On our house and Grandfather's spring--
That poor baby homesick fish.
He doesn't curse;
doesn't drink his beer.
He says "doody"
far too often for polite conversation.
He asks before coming into the bathroom.
He sings, stomps, claps
gospel showers
Every Morning,
while we sip vanilla coffee
and kiss
in the bathroom.
Elvis has left the mantlepiece.
He bundled blush, base, eyeliner
into pink velvet crush,
an anonymous brown box
sealed with masking tape.
It's closeted now.
Marilyn isn't floating above his bed.
He's packing:
matching plates, hundreds of tea pots,
clothes for an army of Saints
onto a Man's truck.
A Christian truck, I would guess.
Lilacs are gone from the kitchen table.
He's too polite.
Glazed-over eyes full
of some kind of Righteousness,
Honeys and Sweethearts
and I'm-getting-my-life-rights.
I put my roses on the table now.
He's nervous.
With God
on his shoulders,
a beer in the fridge,
and two lesbians in the back bedroom.
Beehives and biketrails and anthills
line her backside;
a stomach, like a canyon,
stretches into peaks and one
wide fertile valley
where I lay my head
on moss so soft and damp and thick
with a smell
like centuries of life;
dirt,
salty as a sea
comforting me,
lulling me.
Her hips are a woman's--
quite a woman's.
Yet
she struts, staggers,
covers creation under he stride
arrogant,
sure, contained
and feeling her Place
in the universe.
Her anger rumbles
in a chest wide
as time; this
discontent is
mingled with the tiny round stones
and greenish streams
running through her soul.
She is comfort.
She is constant--
a tiny landmark,
a fall of water,
or a damp cave.
She is a familiar
warm mystery. These hips are wide.
I think:
If I had a world trapped
within me--
mapped onto my body,
pulsing and growing and
expanding,
I would stagger
as well.
She's small,
generously giving me more room
in the booth.
I squint my eyes,
take a tear of toast.
Chew without mind.
She has a problem
with Tall people,
I think.
Napoleon as a bitter little dyke.
(I snigger, see her in
that funny bluegold uniform.)
There she is:
tiny, short muscular legs
a solid little sizeone wearing
waist like the trunk of a baby sycamore.
She runs, bikes, lifts weights.
Tan, even.
Bitch.
She won't even look at me,
(I'm staring)
talks to Anyone else.
I said,
when I first met her,
she's that
HARD-CHIP-ON-MY-SHOULDER-MAD-AT-THE-WORLD
type
I make sure to avoid.
Daddy dumps a scoop of red dirt,
sliced like a thick piece of carrot cake,
splits the earth deeper with each angry boot push.
Angry at them, the cats. I think.
I worry it won't be deep enough,
then remember something Allen--big glasses, bug-eyed skinny
Allen Reed--told me about bodies
floating out of their graves
down sewer drains
down busy sidewalks into the street.
But that's in New Orleans, he said,
that's why, he said, they have houses
for dead people down there.
He said
that could never happen here.
Cats don't like water...
Cat sailboats with furry paw masts
drifting stiffly, dipping and bobbing like sticks
past our house
past my window
onto the highway,
where, at least, they have a chance.
I wiggle my fingers around the sticky plastic.
"Give it here."
Limp, the thing thuds
against thousands of white finger roots
monster tentacles, hairy grippers
wanting to grab it, pull it down
and me with it.
"Why don't we plant flowers tomorrow?
They're on sale."
"Why don't you shutup and hand me that bag?"
That's fair. Only fair.
He's angry.
But I want some color here. I want a pretty colored life.
This mound of ugly
red clay is
dead, dumb, and ordinary.
This is too familiar.
He's grunting or mumbling
something about
supper. I know he won't
plant flowers for me. Mama
said
that man could kill a cactus
and he did.
Mama is cooking
supper; it's the same
as the night before last
night and I wish I could
be a cat.
I watch "B.C. for Blind Cat"
slink around the roof accusingly
and I wait
for her to fall off
again. I wait for Daddy to laugh
at her for it. He says
she should be long dead by now; blind as
death and dumber,
she is.
The kitchen window is fogged
but I feel
She's watching him, not me,
probably stirring the tomato sauce,
tapping a spoon on the aluminum ring,
staring
at his sweaty t-shirt back
hating him
for something.
I hate him for her
just the same
Maybe for B.C.
Maybe for the cat in the bag.
He pats the round mound with completion
with a snort and
stalks off
toward his shed to rattle his old
rusty tools.
I kick, heave and slide the gray cinder block
tombstone
off of September's tiny grave
onto
October's.
My palms are scratched bloody from the stone.
God. Bacon now.
Pigstrips.
Won't the horror ever end?
She slept with my lover.
Six years ago.
She thinks I hate her.
I think I do.
Now,
I'm hoping
the cholesterol
kicks in soon.
So now
My days are chicken soup
And never-ending kisses
Never-ending anticipation of my
Allotted time with you
I wait, last in a long line
Desperately addicted to the taste of your mouth
Receiving a teasing smile
A furtive caress--
It's never enough--
It's just enough--
To keep me hanging on
A cat on a hot tin roof
I have been tamed by my own lust
So I make beds for kisses
And cook chicken soup for the
privilege of witnessing your smile, receiving your praise
Worst of all, though
beyond all trespasses,
my mindless betrayals of
Feminism
I like being your mother
I want to be your mother
in hopes that
You'll want to be my lover
Her voice, a sultry whisper
forged by smoke and
languid heat
"Sugah, Mama's gonna
love you right,"
she purrs from
beneath the sheers
She's a little worn
(I like them that way:
Their eyes are filled with wisdom,
not springtime's sticky sweetness)
Her feet, dusty from the red clay roads
have never known
luxury--except when she was
with that rich man who owned a shoe store
But now she's gonna
love me
kiss me
touch me
like no man can
Her jaded body
will open my jaded heart
and we'll live in sin
tempted the men(devils)
A blatant aroma of
sex wafting from
our front door
"What you gals
do with our kindhearted whore"
they'll clamor and pout
in disappointment
wondering...
I'll just yawn
turn my back
and return to lovin'
my whore-house cat(Maggie)