Third Place Winner in the 2011 Carolina Woman Writing Contest

Southern Ice Storm

Freezing rain pinged the skylight
after the late news,
thanks to the Appalachians damming
the air from New England.

Patti first hears the crack of the thin
Bradford pear branches,
then the boom of a collapsed
transformer. Then another. She tastes
the silent furnace hum. 

The battery-operated radio says power
could return within the hour, but if not, call someone.
A cold banana and apple must feed
all four North Raleigh residents.

The minivan’s engine runs
for 25 minutes,
the ice chunks mocking the contained
heat. Both parents chip and lift the frozen
sculpture to free wipers and headlights,
while inside
the eight and three-year-old
overturn tables and etch suns
with Sharpies on the carpet.
Do you have to go to work today?
she already knows the answer.

At 7:12 am, his recall-free Toyota
attempts to escape their glassy driveway,
swaying and spinning like a drunk dinosaur
until the laws of friction engage.
For her, there’s only home with no TV,
bored children and the crystal claws
knocking their unwelcome against the wooden siding.

On Monday and Tuesday, I’m the churning dryer
that hums and shakes, gathering momentum
for a flush heat to dry even a rolled-up sleeve
tamped down with pebbled soil and bits of bark.

I’m the overloaded closet rod,
crimping and buckling under the weight
of vintage peacoats gray with dust,
torn storage boxes with ugly pink
flowers and the folded
Christmas sweaters with sad bells never worn. 

By Wednesday, I’m the runaway
steamroller ironing the long khaki skirt
that can’t stay pressed despite heat, pressure
and patience. Thursday
I’m the wet sock full of sand,
a fuzzy hairbug
that needs to be washed again
although it’s full of Tide smell.
Repeat, rinse, repeat, rinse.

On Friday, I’m a striped silver scarf fraying at the ends,
bunched into a drawer with the others, no peeking,
no Isadora-lengths or silk here. Just 85% cotton
and 13% spandex with a blend of the unknown.

By Saturday, I’m formerly-known as a maroon shirt
with wash stripes down the front and a salad
dressing stain earned last Thanksgiving.
Not all of me
can fit in the washer; there’s always next week
to cycle and sort the load.

She flew away from France the first time
before anyone knew about the Beatles.
Pressing her St. Christopher against her plaid shirtdress,
gin on her breath, my mother listened
to the props slicing through foggy air
thick like tongues.

On one side of the gold face
Christ and Christopher,
his Hercules-powered arms encircle the infant
halo-bound, they both cross the river.

A flip of the talisman reveals
two Ferraris blazing under Mont Agel
as a sailboat plays in the Port of Hercules.
Christ is the front car, backed by Christopher
who relies on His wake and instinct
on the steep Monaco curves.

This medal, my inheritance, cool
next to my pale child skin
on the Boeing 747 to Paris,
my French grandmother kissed me with it
on my fourth birthday.

I must keep this necklace secured
in a leather box under my twin bed with my
other nice jewelry,
but now the chain is tucked into my sailor-striped top,
not to get snagged or stolen.

I rely on my mother to navigate
customs. She fills the air with d’accord, merci and s’il vous plait,
polite words to match her burnt orange skirted suit she
bought expressly for this trip. She never sleeps.

Maybe St. Christopher staves away
delays and cancellations,
crashes, hijackings, and water landings,
but not her mother and sister she’ll soon see.

I feel her blackness but I can’t patch
her love and loathing like the silver squares on the TWA’s wing,
or help her cross her bottomless river.
I never hold my mother’s hand.

***

Honorable Mention, Love Poem Category
North Carolina Poetry Society 2009 Contest

Easter Sunday

The baby’s pink sock is between
a hard place and a clock
without a second hand.
She squints at the space
the swirled bears make
every time her older brother twirls
the five puckered colored
charms into fans.

She knows he’s silly
since he never
looks before he leaps
into the chocolate milk
he stirs into mounds.

I’m their mother who earns pink tickets
after blue lights and sirens flash
when I forget haste makes waste.
Do I want to leap over a cliff
or shout to the clouds when he
says, “Just like the other time, Mommy”?

Yeah, I put all my eggs in one basket
full of needles and blackberries,
cream and sand,
lollipop licks and middle-aged bananas.
Easter’s not too early this year
since I need more green and second chances.

***

The Raleigh Quarterly, Fall 2008 Issue
Color TherapyRed is a wrong stove burner
left on while I do dishes,
check e-mail and feed my son carrots and cereal.
Red is my hair, feet and ankles after a two-mile run.
I can’t shake the inflamed blush for hours.
Red is my four-year-old son’s energy
that scratches and tears through
the curtain of his day.

Red is a rash on my back that won’t heal,
red is the inside of my lip
after kissing you on the night before our wedding.
Red is wax pooling in three mounds
on our new beige carpet.
The thick candles a promise,
consuming space on our dresser,
their flames flicker & die
to the ceiling fan’s metronome above our bed.

Red is my December birthday surprise
& Christmas wrap all over the living room floor,
wicker and plastic trash cans close to exploding.
Red is the seven-week-old life dripping out
of me on the bathroom tile —
she was our Scorpio daughter.

Published in Spring/Summer 2008 Issue, Main Street Rag
Carport Carpenter

My hands scarred below the knuckles,
thumb nails split,
yellow like old caulk at the nailbed.
A thin circle on the left hand,
tanned reminder of a tossed commitment.

I build a carport in suburban D.C.
for a one car, four-person family
where the summers suck vacuumed humidity
& the winters ice glass roads.

Now to cut the wood, sand the planks,
measure with a ruler.
My tool belt bangs against my hip
as I wrestle fickle nails with torn flesh.
My body is a ’78 Chevy El Camino,
pewter blue, silver rails along the bed,
creaky on turns with shitty acceleration on entry ramps.
I wonder myself how I smoke and work,
but I have strong teeth and don’t need an ashtray.

***

in the Kakalak 2008 Poetry Anthology
Domestic Duties

(For Billy Collins)

You are the coffee mug and the honey,
the wax and the sponge,
and the pink roses blushing against our house.
You are the laundry folder, the trash collector,
the dishwasher, and the Barbecue King.
However, you are not the mop,
the vacuum cleaner or the Fantastik.
You are certainly not the water
running down our tap into my used Dasani bottle.

It is possible you are the old ice cubes
in our freezer. Maybe you’re even the
Tupperware containers tumbling
on the floor every other day.
Perhaps you resemble the pear trees
in our front yard, but not quite.

Not quite.

Speaking on the plentiful imagery of the domestic world,
I am the sound of coffee brewing at 6:30 am on Monday.
I also am the soft eggs
you break in the metal bowl,
the milk you taste in your coffee
and the lemon you bisect for your evening tea.
I am also the glass vase, the dish towels,
and the ironing board.
But don’t worry,
I am not the coffee mug and the honey,
nor the roses that bloom for a few days.
You must always be the rose I place in my vase.

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