what did you think she would call it?
more tiger, less sex kitten, taking over
the world and streets in a country that
needs the influence of women.
cats, so obviously woke.
it’s their drive-by super power to leave
calling cards of powdered prints in places
of men’s psyches which only creatures of high
intuition and acumen can reach.
maybe you will, or maybe you won’t set foot
in Pam or Emma’s way of living in silos,
on top of machine-rolled alfalfa or hay bales
and maybe you will or maybe you won’t be afraid
of locusts, until you hold a carcass and crush it,
–for death can’t hold onto the front elm tree
and maybe mothers & grandmothers take up elbow room,
but if you think you’re too good for them, then
maybe there’s a tornado with your name written on it
and it ain’t fictitious: the locust, the silos,
the alfalfa baled like hay, the tornado teeth,
they’re real; but maybe some parts aren’t
and maybe for better reasons, and good reasons,
and for the knowledge of light for that dark year
held up for her fierce wrestling pin and hold
upstairs in the blue room, no one was knowing
everyone’s voices would become lavender maybe,
each one of us pushed to the ground for good
::
for Real Toads
I live in a house built for antique
women; originators by the names of
Opal, Stella, Velma, and Irene. They’re
permitted to stay on a rotating basis.
Some Opals roll up to breakfast; age 104
drink apple, not orange juice. Some Opals
hail from Topeka, but enjoy small town talk
and hang onto a fistful of crumpled tissue.
Some Stellas are quiet; some cantankerous
refusing a bath because there’s no getting dirty
from sitting on your rump all week. Stellas
put lipstick on, celebrate life, and the 4th of July.
Some Velmas bring their husbands, but most do not.
Some Velmas may bring computers, with trouble-
some commands, while most mainly pack elastic waist-
bands, slipper socks, and a few filled picture frames.
Some Irenes sway comfortably in August on the front porch
swing draped in pastel woolen sweaters, while other Irenes
become the most endearing because I have to talk so loud,
because I have to lean in so close to their sweet roll faces.
::
10: NaPoWriMo and Real Toads
{word list: women, celebrate, originators, life}
… corner of my mind
the secrets of her mouth
grin with flowers
and i can’t stop
my urges, because
i am pale
&her smile’s
instantaneously fuchsia,
laughing like the raging
sun, coming-on-too-strong
her exalted rosebud
lips entice
… mad, mad desire
{for dVerse}
Tell me… One more time
How Grandma roller skated–
Hell-bent for Heaven.
If any image should be lasting, it’s the one of Grandma strapping on roller skates, throwing caution to the wind and her fragile bones to a higher power. When I think about it, that’s the best story I could pass on to my daughters. Be funny. Be coy. Be smart. Be trouble. Be happy.
But above all, be brave.
Don’t be stupid, though. My mom and I did affix a brown velour couch pillow to Grandma’s tush using my dad’s belt. We held her hand, ensuring she accomplished her lifelong wish to skate. The brevity of Grandma’s time on wheels was matched with the levity of her legacy. We laughed and tried to steady ourselves. I held and pressed the button down on the Polaroid camera. As long as I live, I hope to never forget that shining moment in time, in the backyard of my 4th Street home with grandma, mom and me.
Be brave. I now tell the same woman who cinched up Grandma’s belt.
Be brave. I tell myself. I’ve been spared another day, because mom still knows my name.
I’ll remind her tomorrow about the time we helped Grandma to skate. I’ll cinch my belt and skate around the catch in my throat when I call. I’ll remind her that it’s Mother’s Day and I’ll say “I love you, Mom.” We’ll both be brave.
finely spun material 