(just so none of you will lock me up as crazy, the context is Franklin, Tennessee, Civil War era. If you don't know about Carry McGavock, you should look her up)
Alone I walk among the shades of grey;
I pass the time conversing with the dead
And relish in the beautiful decay.
No soul but mine could know the thoughts I weigh
Within my heart, or hear the whispers said
Among the halls where walk the shades of grey.
Through pain I kill to save and heal to slay,
But not a single guilty tear is shed
For aiding in the natural decay.
I shroud myself in pious black array
And softly traipse the place where men once bled
Before they walked among the shades of grey.
All others view my pastime with dismay
And think a woman feeble in the head
Who relishes consumption and decay.
Yet someday soon their names will find a way
Into my small, brown book that all men dread
To join the walk among the shades of grey,
Forever clothed in beautiful decay.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Apple Spice Cookies
We’re cutting apples,
the oven heated to 350°.
Let’s make cookies, I had said,
and you shrugged, watching me
as I began to measure and mix
until I looked at you
pointedly
and put you to work.
Now I’m helping, my modest knife
making smaller cuts while yours,
the “manly knife,” handles bigger wedges.
Neither of us talking, the kitchen silent
except for the clop, clop of the knives
against the board. Emphasized silence.
My face turns to the work, while inside
my mind is turning, turning,
unable to dismiss the words that slip,
unsaid,
though the charged air.
Several minutes tick away, rising
and falling with the beat of the knives.
I wait for the silence to break
like thunder announcing the storm.
But it doesn’t.
And so I speak. And you speak.
Our words fall in beat with our work,
soft, measured, cautious,
but true. Real.
Our knives still, the work done.
The apples fall into the batter,
disappearing beneath oats and nutmeg.
Our eyes meet across the counter,
mine ocean-grey, yours mountain-brown.
I look away first and begin dolloping
the would-be cookies onto wax paper,
trying hard to create uniformity
out of the uneven blobs.
You sidestep the counter,
removing the space between us,
and lean into the bend of my neck.
Again your words are few, whispered,
but they are enough.
The cookies are in the oven now—
I think they will be good.
the oven heated to 350°.
Let’s make cookies, I had said,
and you shrugged, watching me
as I began to measure and mix
until I looked at you
pointedly
and put you to work.
Now I’m helping, my modest knife
making smaller cuts while yours,
the “manly knife,” handles bigger wedges.
Neither of us talking, the kitchen silent
except for the clop, clop of the knives
against the board. Emphasized silence.
My face turns to the work, while inside
my mind is turning, turning,
unable to dismiss the words that slip,
unsaid,
though the charged air.
Several minutes tick away, rising
and falling with the beat of the knives.
I wait for the silence to break
like thunder announcing the storm.
But it doesn’t.
And so I speak. And you speak.
Our words fall in beat with our work,
soft, measured, cautious,
but true. Real.
Our knives still, the work done.
The apples fall into the batter,
disappearing beneath oats and nutmeg.
Our eyes meet across the counter,
mine ocean-grey, yours mountain-brown.
I look away first and begin dolloping
the would-be cookies onto wax paper,
trying hard to create uniformity
out of the uneven blobs.
You sidestep the counter,
removing the space between us,
and lean into the bend of my neck.
Again your words are few, whispered,
but they are enough.
The cookies are in the oven now—
I think they will be good.
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