We are the long grass and anxious wind,
the generations, speaking softly, between
the lines of history.
DREAM CATCHER
for Mary Ella Starling
Rain falls softly with the slumbered
breaths of my grandmother.
I watch from the bedside,
trying not to disturb dreams of
watermelon patches and porch swings.
I walk slowly to the door.
The afternoon and freshly cut grass
cools down the room and eases
the drawl of summer.
Don’t leave girl.
My grandmother lifts the quilt
sewn fifty years ago by her mother,
signaling me to join her.
I slide into the pocket of the quilt,
letting my grandmother’s hands
cradle me back to child.
I nuzzle the crease of her neck
scented with grandfather’s lips.
Her hands, more delicate than tears,
caress the roundness of my face.
Brings back memories, doesn’t it girl.
As a child, my feet barely touched
her hips when she nestled me;
now our legs knit together,
creating a human quilt.
Sleep with good dreams girl.
Our eyes bow to the tranquil rain.
The deep breaths of our slumber
linger above us, like a prayer.
O.W. STARLING
for Papa
Crack the seal,
remove the cap,
and pour your life.
1932 Vintage, aged with
Fedora
Cigar
Rose
Red
Walker
Johnnie
Nothing to prove,
pour as slow as you want.
Long gone are days of hurry,
big band,
double shots,
back alley,
breakfast at midnight,
round the clock,
round the bar,
indigo,
shotgun,
shimmy,
shake down.
You about the quiet:
long walks,
easy does it,
win some, lose some,
close your eyes to remember.
Your old lady flirts from heaven.
Her purple dress, Elizabeth Taylor wig—
skin the color of buttercream;
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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