Fire Escape

What a great July 4th --- family and friends, good food, laughter, fireworks, and great music.

"Love makes the price good enough to want to pay --- don't make the hurt go away ---- fire escape ---- all that I can do is ache ---- you've gone away."

Third Shift Blues

Third Shift Blues (poem I wrote this morning)

She was smoking a Black and Mild at 4:30 a.m. at Waffle House
When I spotted her and thought she was absolutely perfect
For a photo, black and white --- coffee skin, tattoo above breast, resigned.
Standing to go, she raised her arms, the shirt slid up, and I saw
That her jeans were unfastened and unzipped for comfort;
She fastened them to complete the dining experience,
coming full circle like a smoke ring leaving the full lips
Like a prayer to the god of crispy bacon and coffee, straight up.

StumbleUpon WebToolbar - Other Paths

StumbleUpon WebToolbar - Other Paths

Covers

Mothers provide soft beds for us, with clean sheets,
fluffy pillows, and piles of blankets. When we fall
asleep somewhere else, they cover us with afghans
(afrikans, my stepmother pronounces it).
If it is winter, or there is a chill from a nearby window,
they choose heavier weight, that warm brown chenille piece
their mother-in-law gave them for Christmas; if April, it
is the middle weight one, hand-stitched, with birdhouses.
They are pleased to see that the family cat has covered our feet.
Braver, more confident ones will steal a kiss; timid ones,
fearing to wake us, will resist. Either way, the kissing is
accomplished.

Sometimes they cover us with lies, if necessary,
and with opportunities, better education, Van Gogh, music
(I hear the cottonwoods whispering above, Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in Love)
with umbrellas, hairspray, Easter dresses.
They cover us with Bibles, whole pages, from memory. Crosses
around our necks, prayers over us all the day long and night too.
Scarves (Amanda Wingfield, Tom, take your muffler.
Will you, oh, will you? Laura, you went out, every day,
in that thin coat, courtin pnemonia? Why, Laura, Why?)

Mothers cover us with praise and worry, with furious and relieved tears.
Remember the worst day of my life, when I couldn't find you
and you were playing with Summer at the graveyard, and then you came back
and I couldn't stop shaking and crying?

When we lie uncovered, go about exposed, vulnerable,
well, they must have been busy or unaware of our potential suffering
because the hall closet is bursting with blankets of various sizes
just waiting to cover us, and our mothers' hands reach for them of their
own accord as they pass (isn't there someone who needs to be covered at this
very moment, let me do it?)

They cover us as surely as the night does, and as the promise of morning.
I get drowsy just thinking about it, and now that my mother is gone,
I have to cover myself with her blankets. It works, but not quite as well.
I can't get comfortable, thoughts slip in or out of the spaces not tucked in.
Mama, can you bring another blanket? It's a two-dog night, you used to say.

Interesting Music for Sunday Contemplation

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x8sdo9_fever-ray-when-i-grow-up_music

Fever Ray - When I Grow Up
Uploaded by MuteRecords

My Mother's Ring

I just discovered this sad but beautiful poem and wanted to post it here for reflection. I have some of my mother's rings: her engagement ring to my father, which I have worn since I was 16 -- though I haven't been wearing it as much since her death (think I'll put it back on tomorrow) --- and her high school class ring, which speaks to me of her accomplishments and how smart she was and how she wanted to be a teacher but never did do it.

The poet is Lyn Lifsin, whose work I am teaching tomorrow in Eng 102.


MY MOTHER'S RING

Once too tight
now it swivels on
her bony finger.
Only her knuckles
bulge. I can't
do it, my mother
says, a shriveled
bird in the stark
hospital bed. When
I saw the dead bird
in Morristown I
felt it was a sign.
In two weeks my
mother's mouth
is so dry it curls
as if full of wild
feathers. The ring
glitters, spits
out a yellow light,
not anywhere near
as pure as the
myth of its per-
fection my mother
spun of it like
whatever else
pleased her,
like me

Celebrate Earth Hour Tonight

http://www.earthhour.org/home/