The Literary Review
Mummified Words
(Based on a true story.)
At times she’d say she was “no good,”
None understood why she’d say it.
In darkened nights and days she would
give birth and knew she was putty
in his arms, she would be there when
he would call again. She’d store them
in the attic wrapped in the morning’s
news. Who knew of the spinster’s secret
family in the dusty trunk?
A “pillar” of the local church,
the children ran to her, and she
helped her Mom run the boarding house.
In darkened nights and days she would
give birth then stuff its crying mouth,
roll it in the morning’s paper.
One who had been allowed to grow
to walking age soon was grabbed, placed
among the silent ones. None could
understand why she’d say she was
“no good,” until nearly fifty years,
and she was gone. Found in a nursing
home, retired, he claimed he never
“got the news.” He had a sibling
who’d been married with no child of
her own to hold. She cried, repeating,
“life isn’t fair . . . life isn’t fair . . .”
In darkened nights and days she would
give birth and knew that she was weak
in his arms . . . in the small town where
everyone knew one another—and
attics could hold their dusty secrets.
At times she’d say she was “no good,”
None understood why she’d say it.
His Grace
In his own and complete
world he’s taken his time
to be a winter man.
Skating over ice
he can handle himself
with graceful turns.
In the spring he
runs by and can enjoy
all the newly “sprung.”
In summer, swimming—
he’s Neptune
in a watery paradise.
In the autumn
with gentleman moves
on the floor, he’s a “Fred Astaire.”
He can handle any dance rhythm.
He seems to know the seasons.
He’s not been left behind.
With his pen he moves
well with iambic feet.
In his world
what will he not master?
And then—I see the birds.
The Chicken and the Jack-O-Lantern
Was it fruit or vegetable? It had a smile
not to be trusted. Words with no value
in the morning, a mouth that could bring fourth
some evil things. A Halloween vegetable
character; Jack-O-Lantern preserving
an aura with a light that couldn’t light
an onward path, or cast light on sincere words.
A vegetable has its time, this one turned
to be synthetic, with an ability
to preserve itself, put itself away
for the next Halloween. And now she’s confused
chicken-vane turning outside in the cold wind,
having to cope with harsh changes, pointing,
asking, repeating—what were you? What were you?
Who are you? And what are you? What were you?
The Wheel
She was once her mother’s doll,
cleaned with care and hugged
and proudly wheeled.
At the doctor’s office mom now waits,
bears the weight of almost a century.
A knit hood around her head,
and a black coat – is just strapped
tenderly about.
Now and then her head drops,
as if pulled by a past remembrance.
Was it in old Havana? Old San Juan?
El viejo Nueva York?
An ivory shawl drapes over her knees
to where her feet are crossed
in pure white socks and soft
black slipper shoes.
Her now grey doll returns
holding a new appointment.
She exchanges a few words then proceeds
to wheel her home, as clean and hugged
and proudly wheeled as she once was.
