Curtsies and Climbs

Kristen never quite managed

to pull herself over the bar

Dad stuck between the trees—

the ones we used as goal posts.

She hung and swung and

kicked her legs with a grace

she thought she needed—

Mom so wanted a gymnast!

 

             I used to climb and sit

             on the limbs of that tree

            that taught me of angles.

 

            I watched as her arms

buckled and gave like

the curtsey of a ballerina.

On the day my limb snapped

Mom pushed her up where

momentum should carry her over—

tired of watching her fall.

As I flew past the bar

her arms bowed on the edge

and dropped staring over the yard—

how kind to curtsy my passing.

Your Black Dress

She's best without heels,
looking up to find me here--
her wet eyes waiting.
Your loose dress beckons a touch,
probing what it is I'll find.

The New Bank on the Corner

The floorboards groaned under Papa’s shuffle in the end. In the years before the slippers, the sharp clack of his heels called for attention, The floors quick and poised, creaking like they should. Nannie never liked to tell the story of the time, When two boys who thought they didn’t have to pay, Backed down the porch steps under the point of his barrel. Later, the store sat on the corner where the road opened up, Papa’s pumps moved back to make room for their sign. Only once I thought of the floors beneath the tellers’ feet, Groaning away without the sharp clack of Papa’s heels.

Half-hearted Swipes

It is good to see chalk boards again. The lessons given semi-permanence through the medium of chalk throughout the years strain to hold their vitality, peeking up from behind the half-hearted swipes with the eraser. How many hands have touched this desk, copying those heiroglyphs on the wall? How many people have hung on to a quote that could have changed their lives? Where is that line that turned P__ into a lawyer, that led M__to her affair on her husband? What were those words? I can feel them, the burning embers smouldering beneath the ashes of the fire of education. There are no clean slates. There is just the half-hearted swipe and the smouldering embers poking through.