-------------------------------------------
Here
under the mossy eaves of this porch
I hum softly under my breath
( a lost melody I cannot place)
and look for messages in the stucco.
It's a sort of scrying,
a way for me to dream
and plot my way on the map of
this life.
My breathing has settled
to the rhythm of the neighbors
leaky gutter and
as the late summer storm rages around me,
I wonder what it would be like
if I was struck by lightning.
This house is worn
and well-loved like an old towel;
torn and tattered.
On these muggy nights
in the cradle of this porch swing
by candle's glow--
I think of you.
Maybe it is because
all of my senses are awake;
the little hairs on the back of my neck
dancing toward the angry skies.
They say that's what happens when
the dead are near.
We dreamed of a place like this.
I am here--
and you are not.
And there is guilt in this fact.
Our daughter plays
beneath these maple trees,
whispering make-believe languages
and I wonder...
Is she speaking to you?
When I ask her what she said
she answers,
"oh, nothin' mama."
You would be twenty-eight this year.
I dare say you would be mature
and we would have moved past
childish arguments and lustful anger.
I would love to think
we would have mellowed
and grown to be good friends.
People say Savanna looks like me,
but sometimes when I am doing the looking
I only see you.
And then you come to me in snapshots,
just moments really
and I try to forgive myself for
forgetting so much of you.
That first glimpse of you,
beautiful you--
slivered green eyes--
through binoculars,
knowing innately that you would
change my life.
Making love on a bridge
over the Missouri River,
and talking by the railroad tracks
until dawn.
Swimming in the
warm green creek in Valley
before a catfish dinner
and the expert way
you pulled a sliver from my foot.
Your strong shoulders,
comical voice,
cowboy boots,
and every picture I have
of you looking like
you knew how handsome you were.
The time you locked me out
8 months pregnant--
the next day you cried in my lap
and then went stone-faced as you
told me you were moving out.
And that morning,
when your mother called
and told me to be strong--
come and say goodbye to you,
your broken body
the Last Rites
a circle-chain of family members
and the erratic beeping
of a machine that could keep
you alive
in name only.
...then the return
to a small child
who couldn't understand--
who wouldn't cry
while my tears threatened
to choke us both.
I need nights like this,
my bittersweet time with you
to see I have come full circle
and that you have come with me as well--
and I feel you
in the electricity of the storm
under these mossy eaves
sending me messages in the stucco,
while our beautiful girl catches
raindrops on her tongue.
|
Submission Name: This Storm
