Crone poetry
Credits posted as available
Enjoy!
Renay
growing into my toes
I am waiting on the porch
of a house that isn't mine
for a woman I might be
related to. we have the same
toes, except mine are
presently painted a vile shade
of magenta
she is inside pulling yarn
from an afghan. I want
to go in, yell at her stop
unraveling things and
rewinding them again around
pieces of shoebox cardboard
cut square and solid as
headstones
but I don't go inside. instead
I wait out here for her to
finish unwinding. soon
she will come back out
maybe yelling go away,
get off her porch, leave
her alone. maybe she
won't know me
or maybe she will sit
beside me on the swing.
if so I'll kick off my shoes
and show her that, except
for the polish, our toes
are the same
------------------------
Crone
she mimes me
at the mirror
pulls crinkly lips
to yellow toothed smile
at my fear
no mercy from the crone
she spent herself on
spice perfume and
arrogant men
when I crave a lover
she jabs rabid hands
between my thighs
cackles our lust
then sleeps
little comfort
beside me
tattooed freak show old woman
pokes scaly broomstick legs
in my stockings
bony arms in my dresses
mocks me with her
scrawny ass, her pleated tits
she harps on the lovers
I never gave her
black lung bitches
her loneliness
keens for wilder days
hungry hands
one more man
--------------------
Soles
Bathing my own feet
Playing Mary to myself
The oil smells sweeter this way.
Touching each toe gentle
I am the Christ
Before memory hits
There is nothing but warmth and milk
Simple beat of heart
I cure myself a thousand times
Practicing for others
Remember to give thanks
Especially at that place
Where I touch planet
Soles meet in dust
Tiny puffs hydrogen
It will be quite some time
Before the violence comes
Until then, I teach water
How to hold me
Upright.
----------------------------
George
Romance is forever
So he is not alone
Gazes through the gentle flames of slender candle
White linen, a table for two
The simple elegance of an eighty-year love affair.
Til death do they part
They have not parted
He cannot see her, nor go on without her
She is with him still
In silence he feels her voice
Oh, for the love of Grace
A life of love and music
Art and philosophy
Children and laughter
Rewriting Shakespeare
"Then ten times happy we..."
---------------------------
Stringin beans
by 6:30 our fingers are hot numb crisscrossed
in friction ridges that will snag
and bleed within the hour,
dragging red stains along the twine.
two days of irrigation, sun, and hoe dust
will mute miles of bean string
to a shade of soft grey
like we never bled there at all
this year I am tall enough, quick enough
to sail a spool over lead wires,
catch it unwinding,
then pass it to my grandmother
who crawls on her knees beside me
she wraps the anchor wire with one hand
pitches the spool back to me with the other.
bean strings must be tight enough
for plants to climb, loose enough
not to snap when wind slaps at them
bean strings must be perfect.
I cannot be trusted yet
to crawl my aches alone
through dirt chunk acres
stitching a harvest yet months away
we clench words in our teeth
like drinking straws. it is too early to talk.
her breath huffs out silver by my hip.
five rows beyond us, grandpa's hammer
cracks morning open on new stakes
lost in the sizzle of sun on wet shoots
I break our rhythm
stumbling over fist sized knots of dirt.
the string is already dashed red in places
but my hands haven't bled yet
behind us, twine scrimshaws the field
like the face of the woman
on her knees in the dirt beside me
---------------------------------
Renay is a graphic designer and a Gemini, neither of which impresses anyone. She currently lives in Southern New Mexico, although, her heart belongs to the northern half of the state. She looks really good in red.
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Moondance