Blacksnake

PUSHING FORTY

I’m no autumn leaf,

Just one in a withered sheaf

Piled on a forest floor.

I’m not a walnut,

Black-hearted and heavy,

A pungent plunge to rot in a heap.

I’m no October cloud,

A white clot in the sky,

Terrible and tenuous as a sigh.

I’ll not turn mealy-mouthed nor sour,

A dour apple, contorted

From hanging too long in shadows.

I’m no doe, frozen in fear,

Stealth in each dear breath

So I’ll hear death creep up on me.

I’ll not dread silver threads

Cast across my head:

Life’s knotted net cannot trap me.

When I shed this skin I’m in,

I’ll leave a husk like a cicada.

Not a perfect replica:

No knobby knees and hollow eyes for me.

I’ll be filled with the

Airy, amber light of possibility. 

The rebirth of my worth.

My belief in my ability.

Wisdom of failures and follies.

I’ll not crack when I turn forty,

For when forty pushes me,

I’ll push back.

“Pushing Forty.”  Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 2 (Fall 2005).

In the summer of 1954, Bull Mountain’s winding road was a well-traveled track of dirt and dark dust.  Coal trucks smudged everything in their wake. Every time I took in clothes, I had to exorcise the black demon from them. 

One miserable August afternoon, I unclipped laundry from the line and smacked the heavy air with worn towels and sheets.  I muttered -- under my breath, of course.  It wouldn’t do for a child of the UMWA to be caught cursing coal.  My father was worming his way through the earth’s black intestines at that very moment.  

“Puttin’ Up for Hard Times.”  Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 1 (Spring 2005).

SAWMILL BURNING

Butterflies burn in the purple night.

Gossamer blisters twist,

Fall on our faces,

But it’s only luminous ash

That clings to our wet skin.

In the dark a single spark brings it all down.

Full fuel tank roars a dragon’s wrath.

Sawdust and sheet metal meld.

Flames incinerate uncut logs:

Futile death of trees.

My husband sees his life’s work

Flit and fly across the sky

In unbearable embers.

Glowing orange . . .

Then grey . . .

Now white.

Will it melt on my tongue, like snowflakes?

Or taste salty, like tears?

His sawmill burned three days.

Richard brought me its fused beauty:

A lump of metal and wood,

Silver, porous as coral, eerie.

It sits on a shelf,

Reminds us of destruction.

And resurrection.

“Sawmill Burning.”  Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 2 (Fall 2006). 2006   

Appalachian Writers Association James Still Award for Poetry, Third Place.