Weave and straight forward
A deft, quick move both under and over
The joy of the situation is the color,
The changes within the same thread
But uncertain for the undulation of the
Weft and subsequent cloth of us.
Is us a problem?
Men are so eager until the consequence of us
Steps into play and
Women so nonchalant when the squirm of thought
That perhaps something better just may come along
Oh beautiful, release your fear and come near
You’ve nothing at risk
All is already lost -
No reason for your constancy here.
Weave and straight forward
Maiden, matron, crone; three seasons for a woman to follow. Does she dance in an awkward fashion, did she laugh too loudly at the company party, did her hand tremble, blue veined, at the table?
She has the chill of time to soften the mistakes only she recalls. She gave herself in a frenzy of self expression and desire, she loved at a time of grief and loss, she slept close to add warmth when warmth was at a loss: maiden, matron, crone.
She alone has the strength to face those memories alone.
I thought of my grandfather last night,
he was not an easy person.
All of his medals are on my son’s wall,
and the boxes where he kept his purple hearts
are stack neatly next to my favorite books.
He wouldn’t mind, this I know.
He was never beyond being my grandfather -
so the flag, folded neatly on the day we
parted seems the only thing left I understand.
I know now he was not who I remember,
he was someone different,
the glimpses of him I was not suppose to see
come back to me.
I was never frightened then.
I am a little now.
Just sleep, nothing horrific or gothic.
At peace but that, alas,
Has no better connotation:
requiescat in pace.
My mother wishes me to dye my hair,
She misses the auburn color
Of a young woman not there.
It’s still there mother
But the silver is starting to really bleed through.
Bleed then, for nothing can be replaced by a bottle.
I dress in black and wonder if it’s true that
Most old women think that black does something
Do I mourn?
Do I dance?
What I want is for you to feel
The pull of my heart.
What I want is for you to stop
Pointing at me.
We could live to see the day
That I hold your hand to ease my
Well you could learn to let me hold you.
Stand in the midst of the vastness of a young earth just once.
Feel the length of time as a day,
A day an eternity.
There is nothing new in this idea,
Stand please and think of me,
Feel the pull of my heart, hear the call of my voice – the inland sea
Never mine to keep but to love
The steady tap of foot upon street doesn’t distracted me. I sit within the door well deep with shadow and watch them walk by, none of them see me, and still they suspect the existence of me.
The gait in which they step is as telling as as the breath they leave behind on a cold November night. Yes some mean harm to the girls who take the short cut home – not me. I sit, wait and hold my breath so as not to give myself away.
I watch the girls walk by, some sway , some march but some only walk
Young girls don’t stick to much my mother used to say They stick to walking when they should run, they stick to that I say.
No causes this night, no disagreements to overcome,
You’ve done with your life what needed to be done. I kiss the skin above your heart but feel the uniform never really gone.
Your anger your regrets give those to me – smooth down upon my skin the heat and warmth of your touch -
A touch that means centuries, moments of struggles ending in giving up, then don’t, this I plead, don’t give up.
Make one with me the diametric two of us, live before our children the power of love, for me. Cover me during the quietness of the house, cradle me in sleep.
I kiss you deep in the middle of the day, during the heat and frustration the noise and the demands, pulling from you always the strength I need.
Her features in sepia accentuated her then youth as well as foretold her strength in old age.
None of that fleeting beauty; her jaw line, her brow, the straight shoulders under the soft white of her blouse.
When I was young she seemed so tall and her cane to me was something I envied – she leaned into it casually, like old age.
What was he like to be able to woo and win her, who is he now, long in his grave.
She had little to do with me,
small children were to be kept at a distance;
not to hide the decrepitude, nor was she in fear of becoming confused
We, the great grandchildren were simply a sign of continuance into what we were not sure.
She wore tweed pants and a high collar white shirt that sunk into a vee, which from the photo seemed too low for society.
She was laughing and her hair was cut short, her hands strong upon his arms.
Soon after her photo in sepia was taken and placed within the newspapers – a bride to be.
What was he like to be able to woo and win her, who is he now long in his grave.
She died quietly and privately one very early July morning and we all gathered around, children, grandchildren,
We whispered as if she could hear us
Though there was no weeping a sadness hung heavy. She took with her an era that we could not retrieve -
a tall straight back sort of people that even in our black mourning we could not seem to reach.
The soft awakening happens to others not me – I’m to blame.
I look with envy upon two of anything then disdain my weakness
A decision is a decision, not a regret
Between me and the growing fog a window pane reflects what room surrounds me -
I concentrate upon the reflection and wait
I weary and long for the comfort of ignorance which oddly enough lessens the dread
Of what haunts me
Find me ready – she cannot win though she walks on air and makes men weep.
she felt he was tough on her; she was sitting on the edge of love that was true
when he was in the next room she felt the aloneness of his rebukes, his voice hard
and then over.
his sweat was an aphrodisiac and when she was in a crowded elevator heading to yet
another meeting in another city she thought of his shirt, wet, and his face frowning in concentration
over something in the yard he knew she loved.
he laughed with her when she wrapped her arms around his neck his hands locking into the small
of her back. When they were together like that she sensed his caution, his mistrust
did she love him, did she simply want him.
She wasn’t sure
when they touched, when they loved, she tried to separate her mind from
the heat of the two, he knew – he knew and his anger was instantaneous – stay, stay with me
he would say, frowning, pulling away;
she was too week to let him and would cling to whatever he demanded
until he was in the other room, across town, across the country.
his laughter was a balm to her and she heard it in the empty hotel room. The bar downstairs too far to go
and the night too long without a phone call that he couldn’t really concentrate upon.
She wasn’t sure
as she sat down to her computer and another blank screen, his voice in the back ground talking to the cat
in indistinguishable words that distracted her
“What are you writing?” his shirt open, his expression looking a little lost
“About the times I’m certain I love you,” she says