Sundays with Margaret

Three o’clock on Sundays
before the two-hour drive home
or longer, if there is traffic
I’d turn up
on your doorstep
balancing a plate of cake
or box of doughnuts
and a bottle of semi-decent rum
(if I’d gotten paid)
or rotgut (if the week was lean)
with one hand and
my daughter’s hand clasped in the other.


Hugs, and yes, child, you can play with Candy
Don’t worry if she takes a dog biscuit or two
They’re safe for humans, too.
For me, an ancient cup
filled with tea some sugar
Perhaps a splash of whatever high proof dregs
was left from the week before.
Cigarettes, lit from the embers of the last one
butts filling the plate your teacup nestles in.


We’d sit at the Formica table
and reminisce about people I’d never met
times I hadn’t lived in
places I’d never been
slowly sipping and refilling our cups
until the dog and the child
and the menfolk
decided it was time to plate
the roast or the lasagna or the beans and rice
depending on if it had been
a good week
and how early we were in our cups.


You gave me an apron
a velvet beret
a set of teacups
for my birthday
Christmas
Mother’s Day
when we knew the sun was setting
on our Sundays.

My daughter tucks her child’s curls
into that velvet beret
I tie the apron around my waist
and pour tea, mine laced with spirits
into the fragile cups
for our Sunday tea party

The Ring

Tonight, I sleep with a cadaver.
My husband, the denier, as the CLL
strengthened by long term COVID
consumes him, pound by pound.

Your wedding band,
indestructible titanium and carbon,
surface marred and scarred
sand blasted, acrylic chipped,
ungloved victim of some abandoned project
lies in the dirt, flung from fingers
shrunk, shriveled, from
hands once full and strong, thick with muscle,
now trembling.
Even the swiftly shipped replacement
two sizes down
spins freely with each movement.

I slide the pristine ring
onto my left pointer finger
so close to mine
so far from mine.
It knows this is not its place.
I move it to my other hand
settle it on my right ring finger
My flesh seizes it.
I can fight no more,
knees crumple and I
rest my head on your chair.

It is cold.

I light candles, adding one
Confused by the array
Who are they all? Who do I remember?
Who still lives in the life after life
as they are remembered by me?
Does my confusion erase them?
Does it erase me?
Who am I if I am not?

So many doors locked behind me
abandoned homes
sad dreams
distorted memories
overwriting some truth
that no one knows any more.

I feel your hands take mine
I see you, and so many more
waiting for me in the forever
home that will be a home
I drop the key down the sewer grate
and walk into your embrace.

Reading Tea Leaves

Aisles of tea, pushing an empty cart

staring at shelves, paralyzed

the wrong tea, the wrong tea

small bags and large bags and loose leaves

and distillates and

single servings

and and and

if I take the wrong tea

 

I drive, gas gauge blinks

empty alert

but I drive

backseat trunk passenger seat filled

every tea

strainers filters water boilers

Strip mall parking lot, empty except for

homeless shopping carts and

third shifters of the dark

temporary haven

I can’t go home

There are crackers waiting to be dunked

crushed salt for the wrong tea

 

Safer to sleep in the

shadow of the lower bagmen

who haven’t scored notches

who don’t have teardrop tattoos

 

than to face those hands

pantomime communion

wafer in wine

bread in hemlock

crackers in tea

27

Three cubed

That is how many times

today

I reminded myself

that invisible disabilities

deserve my patience

and love

and all I want

is to be free

of this burden

and all I fear

is that day is

coming

soon

Sunset on a Wheelbarrow

Dust road shimmer, another dry afternoon

cloudburst just enough for runnels

and rotting spilt grain

a week’s worth of grain

on the ground, near the coop

but not enough for new corn growing

or unshriveled beans.

 

She sends the children

barrow tippers of grain now

mixed with rotgut bottles in the

knobbyshade tree roots

to a neighbor, watches

the chickens peck peck peck

at precious scattered gold.

 

Yellow marks and cigarette ‘O’s

on her arms, neck and thighs

wait for new color.

 

There is no money to

paint the house

but

soon

she will be vivid as sunset.

 

 

For William Carlos Williams

Published in Deland Museum of Art 2023 Collection

I'll Feed Your Cats

Sure, Good Buddy, I’ll feed your cats

The nice grey one, wo rubs his head against my leg

And the nasty black one, who hisses and scratches at

Everyone

But I think that is because he had a

Difficult childhood.

 

I’ll feed your cats for a few days

While you’re in Heart of Florida

Since your neighbor waroound the corner

Decided it is too difficult

To unlock the door twice a week and

Refill the water bowls and automatic feeder.

 

I’ll stop at the store and pick up

Cat food and litter and treats

Come by twice a week even though it is

At least 90 minutes roundtrip

And I’m not retired like your friend across the way

Who was friends with your parents

And regales me with stories of card games with your mom -which he lost –

But at least he gets the mail.

 

I’ll feed your cats for a few weeks

When I’m not sitting with you at

Consulate Davenport or Palmer or Bartow

At least they lifted some of the COVID restrictions

So I can visit and not have to talk to you through a window

And I can bring you gum and pudding and new shirts

And socks and it is ok to give them to you without going through

The sterilization chamber.

 

I’ll feed your cats for a few months

While you’re home with that healthcare worker

Who is supposed to assist you with common living tasks

But when I spend the weekend, after you pick out a movie

I throw in the laundry and run by Publix to get groceries

Before we discuss God and religion and is there reincarnation and

Who is saved and I didn’t know you were a minister.

 

I’ll feed the cats for a few years

While negotiating with the HOA

Over the unmowed grass and the fallen leaves

And the lawyers and the insurance agencies

And bring your Bible

The pocket Bible, not the large one, the pocket Bible

Well-thumbed and dogeared

To the rehab center in Sebring or Bartow or

Even Celebration.

 

I’ll feed the cats for a few more years

Because I don’t want you to worry

When your heart clogs from

Untreated diabetes and ulcerated wounds

I’ll pack your books and guitars

The painting you inherited from your uncle who died of alcoholism

Bring them all to my place when the roof caves in

because I can do that for you, Good Buddy.

 

I’ll feed your cats for forever

Spending thousands of hours and thousands of dollars

And don’t fucking tell me I’m

Doing God’s work and getting Karma Points

Because I am tired and already stretched too thin and

Too depressed and too over-worked and support too many people

And I am done ith being the practical dependable reliable one

But I love you, Good Buddy,

I don’t want to lose you

Even a little bit of you

So I’ll pick up another bag of kitty litter

And another bag of dry food

And a few cans of wet as a treat for your babies

Because I’ll feed your cats.

 

Four Truths and a Lie

My daughter steps past him

not seeing him

But I do

I see the huddled form

not much more than the

ratty moving blanket

He’s wrapped in

against the odd Florida chill

 

My daughter steps past him

not smelling him

but I do

When he rises and staggers

standing between the dumpsters

to pee the reek of

urine and alcohol and unwashed

carries on the breeze

 

My daughter steps past him

not hearing him

But I do

The hacking glob of sputum

padding of his bare feet

hand thudding on the

wall holding him upright

echo through the parking lot

 

My daughter steps past him

asks me

Have you seen him?

The homeless guy, with the ragged blanket?

Really skinny, has dreads?

I give him a dollar most mornings,

but today he wasn’t here

Yesterday either …

 

My daughter opens the car door

strokes her baby’s hair

Have you seen him?

Enigma Machine

Doorways, hallways, coffins of possibility

if you press the buttons in the correct sequence

if you solve the enigma riddle

stop the cypher shadow mushrooms

lasciate ogne speranza voi ch'intrate.

 

A small black bird

Turing, chained by love unspoken

never spoken.

He breaks his vow of silence

vow of fear, vow of thwarted need.

The lid will slide over his shrouded form

over the coins pressed into his eye sockets

gently smother his breath

as the raven mutters a prayer

scatters a beakful of dirt.

EmmaLee

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere

Change, deny, anger, grief. Cannot escape, still

I see the shadow of your tomb there.

 

Remember tears of a time when every hair

you lost trailed hope by the pitchful

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere.

 

And apricots and placebos and clinicals were

the daily dosage locking up the door.  Still

I see the shadow of your tomb there.

 

Moonface,  bloated Sobibor.

your purpled flesh, bones now fragile

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere.

 

Counting months, counting up to safety year

drop and shatter the magic eight ball

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere

I see the shadow of your tomb there.

 

Café Lucca, Very Late, on a Tuesday

He pulls the handle, then a slow steam hiss

The priests, close by, converse in Tuscano

Biscotti, cannoli, mouthfuls of bliss

He pulls the handle, then a slow steam hiss

You pull me in closer, seeking a kiss

While I stir sweet, thick, precious espresso

He pulls the handle, then a slow steam hiss

The priests, close by, converse in Tuscano

FSPA 2022 Triolet Contest - 2nd place

[Un]Happy Birthday, Sweetheart - Excerpt

It was 4:25 am. He put on jeans and a sweatshirt, went downstairs. Might as well get coffee, he could stretch that for an hour or two, until it was a reasonable time to get dressed for real.

He opened the door. She was sitting on the stoop, on the next to the top step, leaning against the rail.

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I couldn’t sleep. I was so lonely, I am so lonely, so sad. I … I … I came here. I’m sorry. I was going to leave as soon as it got light. Before you got up. You weren’t supposed to see me. I wanted to be someplace I didn’t feel hated.”

He sat down, put an arm around her shoulders so she could rest against him. She was skinny, skinnier than he’d ever seen her. Every time her life wrecked, she lost weight. She probably weighed less than his dog. 

“Are you hungry?”

                She shook her head.  “I don’t remember hungry. I’ll leave.”

                “I’m sorry for leaving you. Stay. At least until daybreak.”

                “I understand. I do. I want to leave me, too. Here.” She opened her purse, pulled out a magazine.  “Here. It is safer for me if I don’t have that.”

                He held the magazine. One chamber was empty. Which meant, maybe, that she still had a bullet in the gun.  He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know.

                They sat on the stoop and watched the stars cede their light to the sun.

Chris Dance

The first thing I saw when I woke was Chris’ face

Eyes still shut hovering on the inside

That bright orange; a Warhol Chris

Pressed into my eyelid

Haloed with blues and fours

Chris’ face, before the accident

Before the crush of metal

Before the diesel fire melted

The asphalt and flesh into one

Chris’ face, and a slowly turning wheel

 

There is a ghost bike there

A tree swallowed part

Gardenias drape the rest

At the turning of the year

I clean the leaves and spin

The wheel

Still see Chris’ face against the inside of my eye

 

I am old now and clippings are brittle

The ghost tree is tall grown through

The wheels don’t spin

I sit on the roots

Chris dancing behind my eyes

 

Chris dancing …

The last thing I saw before I slept

Was Chris’ hand

Reaching for me to dance

Winner, 1st Place FSPA 2021 June Owens Memorial Award

Published in Cadence 2021

Sweater

I started this many, many years ago. Poem, prose, poem, prose. Not satisfied. Unfinished. After 8?10? years of 'not there yet' I realized the narrator had more to say, a conclusion. So I paused, listened to the words behind the words, to what happened after the Great Ending. And then I knew.  While we can't go back, we can't keep turning ourselves into pillars of salt. we can keep a few pieces, light a candle, sing a reprise. 

Opening another box of clothes, winter clothes this time-

How many years since I needed winter clothes,

since I lived in a land of slush and ice-broken trees?

Here, despite the perpetual August of Florida,

I wear long sleeves to protect myself from

excessive air-conditioning

or perhaps to hide the knife calligraphy

paisley tribal keloids

trailing around my wrists

handwriting on concrete walls

not yet driven into.

I place more shirts on

another shelf and take

another pile out of a

maw-gape box.

 

Where did that come from?

How in god’s good name did that end up here?

I’ve moved so many times since then, since that life,

at least a dozen times in the past year alone,

from car

to shelter

to bedsit

to short stay

to extended stay

to here,

finally,

a place that I can call my own

and now this? 

 

That old fisherman sweater he wore.Once.

Fifteen? Twenty? years ago.

It still smells of him.

 

That sweater. My fingers tremble, reach out

to the sweater that escaped Goodwill

and garbage and abandonment

to the sweater that somehow hung onto

 a fragment of a shadow of me

to the sweater still in the box and

I stroke it with fingertips. 

 

Kiss them,

as if they had just touched the Torah, the holy book, 

pick up the sweater, hold it to my cheek, eyes closed.

Kneeling by that box, swaying slightly,

time slows to stop.

 

It still smells of him,

testosterone musk and the chemical reek

of stage two alcoholism.

Rising bile squeezes my trachea,

his hands around my throat,

fingerprint dust in my nose,

so hard to breathe, let alone think.                 

Rubbing my face on it, inhaling him,

the texture of him on my skin,

remembering it as a Proustian call,

as a seismic vibration,

as a marker in my DNA. 

 

His Jack Daniels-coated tongue against mine,

now moving over me, lapping at the whiskey,

spilt by clinking glasses,

the whiskey pooled in my navel,

white powder fueled laughter

emerging between numbed kisses. 

 

I can feel him.

 

Oh god, I remember.

I am doomed to remember.

 

I stand, slip my arms into

that sweater he wore,

that sweater he wore

once

and only once,

and made his own. 

Hands trace the cables, in out, in out, in out.

Pull it down over face, neck, torso, smooths

the soft cotton over breasts that he touched,

held, loved, so long ago,

pulls the sweater all the way down to my hips. 

Lean against the wall,

as his phantom grinds against me.

                       

I slide down the wall to the floor. 

Wrap my arms,

warm sweatered arms

around my knees and bury my face in them.

I drown my lungs in nicotine ghosts,

a beached creature seeking oxygen

in an alien place. 

 

“Mama, mama, we’re hungry. We want lunch.”

My children call from the next room.

“Just a sec, sweeties.”

I pull that sweater off,

drop it on the floor. 

“Mac and cheese or sandwiches?” 

Happy Birthday Sweetheart Part 3

My husband is fucking me

        while I think about my dead ex-lover

how you swore you’d never leave me

        never say no to me

        never forget me

But you did

        you left me

        you forgot me

        you said no to me

in the acid cold of a summer breeze 

And I never got to tell you

         how sad the cup you used

        for drinking evening coffee

        laced with Kahlua

how sad it looks

         porcelain stained

        a chip on the base

how sad

        sitting on the top shelf of the cupboard

behind the wine glasses.

 

Moving Day

They empty my closet

sorting shirts and pants and dresses

into piles

for Goodwill or

The Women’s Shelter or

Some Memory Bear.

The papers and books get tossed

into a soon-to-be pyre.

Furniture, cookware, tumbled, trashed

The fridge. They remove a plate of cookies

cookies I made, cookies I saved

for you.

Cookies from a holiday party you never attended.

Another plate, another party of one.

The freezer is full of cookies

Saved from all the parties you

never attended. You were too busy.

Into the trash.

They divvy up ‘the good stuff.’

You take nothing,

click the lockbox as you leave.

Published in Poetic Visions Poetry Competition & Exhibition 2020 Anthology - Museum of Art - Deland