Last Summer
Two aging women
sat on the "little steps"
at West Central School.
The squeals of sweet
children filled the playground,
now fenced.
It had been over forty years
since I had seen Margaret,
seen her red hair, played
dodge ball, marbles,
jumped rope where flowers
now grew, hopped-scotch
on the gravel. It had been
over five decades
since we were students
in this school that seemed smaller
than either of us remembered.
We peered into rooms that
earlier we had not dared.
We had our picture taken
in front of the drinking fountain,
overlooked--as we always were--
by old-fashioned angels.
Seriously Dangerous
The evening begins with kudzu--
summer memories submerged
in a deep southern swamp--
where spirited black boys, old dryers
bob beside alligators. Late in hot night,
flashes of yesterday surface in pain
like the prick of a thorn, the mock
of a crown that continues its burn.
Low whispers, deep shadows remain
where trials by fire have left actual trails
after a tromp in slime & muck,
with tell-tale footprints from society's
work boots. Seriously dangerous,
the cross without a savior--
deniable today, but for masks, hoods--
cannot burn away filth & dross,
nor wash us clean, 'til truth bleeds.
Absolution
On rocks' underside,
sleeping in soft dirt,
earlywigs roll themselves
into balls. Scent of musty
earth floats upward,
and they scurry to get away--
wishing to live in peace.
How can I justify
this abruptness of sunlight?
Nothing is pure
among thin shadows.
A chill invades me,
and I cast the rock aside,
falling to my knees,
as though my action
might proclaim my innocence.
But who will listen
while I explain--
crying a plaintive cry
to a lonely field
where summer is dying?
Those grubs lie still.
Still. With no premonition
of autumnal joy.
Those grubs lie still
beneath the lifted stone.
Back to Top