Terre Verte

Terre Verte

The ripe red tomato was green first

and will return to green earth

when the pink and red flesh

fades to feed next seasons baskets of fruit.

The Tusquittee Painting Queens

laid down an undercoat of terre verte

to neutralize the red and pink

and make cheeks and hands glow

Hands that cup a butterfly, a hummingbird

Hands that hold a newborn or follow your

lover around the dance floor

Chloe made a warm space

for the Tusquittee Queens to paint and drink tea

To Chloe, from a distance,

you were loved by all.

I stroked her cheek

brushed her hair back from her eyes

I held her hand in mine

as in prayer

and promised her

I would love her the rest of my life

To Chloe, from a distance,

This could be you here

and me there

spread across the green earth.

Prayer from Gray’s River

Prayer from Gray’s River

When a mother kills the light in her son’s eyes
god moves stone like water for miles
and ash rains for months.

I collect mudstone from a bleached river bed
exposed by floods that come
most winters. I build

a cairn on my window sill. If I leave
the cairn sit memories leach
away so sometimes

when I’m strong I take a piece and taste the grit.
The last time I admonished Jack
I can’t recall my words

but under a glaring sun, I see his flushed cheeks,
his sweat-matted hair brushed back. I see
tears as he watches me

instruct him to work harder with the same eyes
that challenged his mother. It’s not like
I’m going to die!

he vowed two nights before she drugged him and
drowned him with a pillow.

The memory is unlithified--I return it
gently--undo only the slightest
flake with my breath.

(previous draft: click here.)

Approaching getting louder

Approaching getting louder

Listening from other rooms

to half answers half heard about school

I close my eyes, think of trees

and husband my fathering opinions.

I can ignore a car backfiring,

the curdling screams of bleeding cats,

the helicopter throbbing overhead,

but news about her hard day

or planned family outings

sends me readying. Listen.

My ringing ears hear gasoline drip

in every mothering voice.